Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The boys at the training camp were different. Dignified individuals, armed with the haughty reassurance that they were the best of the best, that they held something between their fingers that other players—commoners compared to them—would never be able to wield. 

Inherent talent. An insatiable drive. Youthful blood of soon-to-be volleyball royalty.

Not everyone has that; not everyone is born with those high titles. Not everyone can forge themselves a crown. Yet Tobio finds himself staring at the people clustered in the corner of Karasuno’s gym, at his teammates, recognising flickers of regality in all that they do. Traces and burn marks of their undeniable skills, their necessity to the team as a whole—to him .

Because it’s taking time, but he’s starting to feel like his hitters mean a great deal more to him than he thought they did—even Tsukishima.

The boys at the training camp were different.

But just how different?

They were knights, and their armour was their skill. Defensive chainmail meshed together, created link by link by Komori’s receives, but every sinew of Nishinoya’s forearms could counter it, possessing silver-meshed strength of their own. Their hands were weapons, swords slashing through the air as they spiked, offensive cannons like Sakusa and Hoshiumi. Still, Tobio finds that Asahi and Tanaka can muster power like that too. They can spike. 

That’s all he needs them to do: spike .

Spike, and he will meet their every demand. Spike, because he will set precisely how they want. Spike, spike, spike because he will bump and set and serve until his body falls apart; still all too fearful of the heavy crown and velvet robes, crammed away in a box with a lock that cannot contain a raging, mourning king. A monster who anticipates bursting from its confinement.

That’s all Tobio wants, all he needs. For them to spike and to spike good, because he set the ball exactly how they desired, without objection. 

“Yer a real goody-two-shoes, ain’tcha?”

Fuck.

Tobio shivers so hard he nearly fumbles the water bottle from his hand. It catches the attention of not only his team, but Dateko too, who shoot him a few puzzled looks from the other side of the gym.

He’s sure the scowl on his face could kill; a part of him wishes it would. He craves for an execution, for Miya Atsumu’s remarkably aggravating voice to be ripped from the clefts of his mind, and that haunting, insufferable smirk, sliced out from his frontal lobe with the sharpest axe in the land.

Who does that? Who calls someone they just met a goody-two-shoes? It was presumptuous and smarmy and curt. Everything about him rubs Tobio the wrong way, from the overly-familiar curve of his smirk to the down-right mean burn of his eyes. 

“You okay, Kageyama?” Suga’s arm is on his shoulder, lips pulled tight with concern. From the corner of his eye, Tobio can detect a similar apprehension sizzling in the momentary stare that Coach Ukai sent his way. 

He feels like there’s a target on him. Feels like someone will stab him down when his back is turned, ivory steps of the senate dripping with crimson blood, saturated with his sins. A river carved from a fallen monarch, his crown of wreaths painted carmine. Is that how they will see him if he speaks? Like Caesar; emperor supreme. A tyrant king, clutching at silages of power if he dares to object. Will his team, his friends , turn on him? 

He tenses up; the snapshots of five backs turning away and the echoing thud of a set left unspiked resonates throughout his entire body, forcing the hairs on his arm on end, little goosebumps decorating his skin. 

It would not be the first time that Caesar bled at the hands of his friends.

“I’m fine.”

A not-so-masterful lie.

Sugawara tilts his head in a way that tells Tobio that he doesn't believe him. Unsurprising; he’s been told his poker face is not convincing enough.

“You look...caught up.” The hand on Tobio’s shoulder squeezes, concern so evident in the furrow of Suga’s brows.

His mouth goes dry, tongue heavy and no longer fitting the cavity of his mouth. No words can remedy this, and even if they could, he is no alchemist of communication; he cannot concoct an antidote made of sweet syllables and candied accord.

“I’m fine.” He insists, pointedly looking away, “I just didn’t sleep very well. That’s all.”

That’s not a lie. 

The previous night was shit, and Tobio’s brain still aches from the scarcity of sleep, eyes bloodshot with dark circles lining their territory on his face. He knows looking after himself is crucial, knows the value of overseeing every detail of his body, from the edges of his nails to the amount of rest he gets.

His body is a castle, built up from the ground, from his birth. Slabs of marble with mismatching patterns, torn from others in his life, gifted by some to form his arms, smashed by former teammates, leaving cracks over his chest. They sculpt him up, bit by bit; break him down much faster. Granite pillars carve his legs, strengthened by his strict regime, his way of life: a run every morning and every evening, healthy foods, meticulously filed nails and making sure to cool down after workouts. 

It's all essential, all carved into him as auric accents, curled calligraphy spelling out advice on his skin. Words of wisdom from Kazuyo, "Let me teach you something just as important as practice: personal maintenance ."

Sleeping well is personal maintenance, and he would never willingly neglect advice taught to him so lovingly, but it's arduous to stick to anything when thoughts of Miya Atsumu stealthily steal away his desire to slumber. Even things ingrained into him since birth tremble under the pressure of his words. One 'goody-two-shoes' and the foundation of his castle cracks, not nearly as steady as he'd thought it was. One 'anyone who can't hit my sets just sucks' and the king bound by chains is reaching for him, pulling him by his feet, dragging him back to his imperious nature.

Tobio struggles to shake him off, to keep him at bay when all he really wants to do is keep playing. That’s all he’s ever wanted. He will cut that sharp tongue from his mouth and not say a word, so long as he can keep playing . That’s exactly what he promised he would do, but Atsumu has unearthed the king from his grave. He has taunted a slumbering monarch, and now his team will face the wrath, no matter how hard he tries to keep him locked away.

The break has ended, and the practice match continues without any major problems, but Tobio’s skin feels tight, hardening with every movement. He doesn’t let it affect his plays, god no, that would be the nail in his metaphorical coffin. But the pressure is building up, the locks are loosening, the pharaoh is aching to leave his tomb. A hundred eyes are focused on him; he can feel it.

Nishinoya is in the way of the spikers’ attacks. He digs his nails into his skin. Tsukishima won’t jump high enough. He is pulled back from arguing back. Asahi doesn’t make the point. The set ends, and the floodgates burst open.

“Damn it, sorry!” Asahi places his hands over his face, “That was a really good set.”

Tobio feels something snap, more than a mere string; he hears the clang of shackles crashing into the wooden floor of the court. He knows he should stop, but his vision is clouded; he can’t see anything but crumbling palaces and steps coated in blood.

“ Then make the damn point .” His voice is strained, rougher than it has been for a while and it catches the team off guard. Heavy breaths and shaking steps, trembling hands and aching head. He feels like he is burning alive; he hates it, hates it, hates it. “I know my tosses are good, so try to score more often.” 

One more yell and his throat feels like it may split, voice box raw, feet numb and shoulders rounded in a defensive position. The gym is quiet save for his laboured breathing and the rapid thumping of his heart, strong enough to burst from the confines of his ribs.

Fuck.

“Looks like it’s the return of the king.” Tsukishima comments, scoffing lightly before drinking from his water bottle.

Fuck .

Tobio’s lips can’t form the right shapes for words to spill though, singed and lacerated in a million different places. Unfit to speak, unfit for this team. He steps back, trying to do something to fix this, anything , before backs turn again and yet another monarchy is slashed to its knees. Rome cannot fall this time. Caesar cannot bleed out. He doesn’t want to fall; he doesn’t want to bleed. He doesn’t want to be alone.

He bows his head, trying to will away the blurriness in his vision.

“I’m...I’m sorry--”

“Y’know, I’ve been thinking about it,” Hinata’s voice breaks the silence as if it was nothing special, not the very thing tightening like a noose around Tobio’s neck, “So what if he’s the king? Is it because he’s too bossy?”

Tobio winces slightly.

“No matter what Kageyama says, if I don’t like it, I just won’t listen.” Hinata announces it with a feral grin on his face, eyes doing that thing where they could consume an entire galaxy with their fervour. He swings the towel from his shoulders, staring up at Tobio as their coaches chuckle to themselves, “So no one really cares if you’re the King. I mean, isn’t the King meant to be cool?”

Tobio doesn’t know what to say. He gets that feeling a lot when he’s with Hinata. Hinata who has the same drive as the boys at camp, the same voracious hunger. 

“Yeah Kageyama, I’m still going for the cross shot, ‘kay?” Tanaka slaps his back with his palm, “If you don’t like that’s your problem. Don’t get too pissed about it.”

Tobio frowns, “Can’t make any promises.”

And Tanaka laughs. Laughs and doesn’t twist a knife in his back. Laughs and doesn’t leave him alone.

Tobio feels a little lighter.

The second set is better than the first, not game-wise, but for his soul. It no longer feels like he is scorching away, no longer feels like he has to watch his back, no longer feels like his tongue needs to be bitten in between his teeth lest a tyrant uses it to speak on his behalf.

He makes Tsukki fly and that fills him with smouldering smugness, loosens the tightness in his chest and the hunching of his shoulders. The team is shocked and Tsukki isn’t all that pleased, but it worked, it worked, it fucking worked.

Then Hinata is being his dumbass-self and imitating him. 

What a little prick , Tobio can’t help but huff out a laugh.

“ The setter’s the most dominant role. ” Unruly ginger locks flattened into bangs, a truly offensive imitation of him, “ It’s the coolest! We’re not letting you forget that you said that. ‘Cause no matter how hard you try to just listen to everyone, you’re still a king deep down Kageyama-kun.”

There’s not a moment left for Tobio to process the words being said because Hinata is yelling, charging at him with a crown made from the very towel he was just using, “From now on, you’ll be known as the new King of the Court.” 

Tobio’s not sure of the face he’s pulling when Hinata jumps to place that pseudo-crown on his head. He just knows he won’t let him see the smile that follows, whipping the towel at his face once his feet meet the ground again.

New King of the Court, eh? Tobio feels his heart relax, feels everything that he has been made of shine a little brighter, as a crown of pure gold settles on his ebony locks. 

He can’t stop being a goody-two-shoes, just as he can’t stop being a king in some regard. He’ll take both; he will let the tyrant die but never slave after his chasers. He knows he can be wrong, but he also knows when he most definitely is right. Because this is volleyball, this is what runs through his veins. This is at the heart of his castle, his crown jewels, the intricate carvings of his marble heart, softening as he looks at his team.

“I don’t always know how people feel, and apparently I’m no good at saying things the right way,” Tobio admits, “But I’ll do everything I can to become the best setter.”

Dachi laughs and it isn’t mean or cruel or hurtful; it is simply comforting.

“We know, Kageyama. That’s what you’ve been doing this entire time.”

This isn’t Rome, and it isn’t Kitagawa Daiichi. He isn’t Ceaser, and Karasuno isn’t his old team.

There are no steps to walk alone, no senate to bleed at the feet of. No, there is a shared path, a team that trusts him and nationals to win.

There is a boy – who doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut, when to stop teasing – who has never known loneliness, that Tobio needs to prove wrong.

But first, there are kingdoms to conquer, kingdoms made just as Karasuno is, with defense and offense and teamwork.

He decides that, yes, the boys at camp were different, but they have nothing, no royalty, no title, no talent that his team does not share amongst their ranks.

They too, are royalty.

Chapter Text

Nationals.

Tobio breathes in the air of a real stadium, a battleground for volleyball dynasties from all over Japan to wage war, leaving the final prize, the crown jewels, for the one team that is victorious. 

He intends for Karasuno to be that team.

Faces that are both familiar and unfamiliar fill the stadium halls, and for the first time Tobio knows people without being introduced through the rest of the team. 

There’s the boys from training camp; Komori is sociable enough to strike up polite chit chat as Sakusa hides away from the bustling crowd, clearly not one for social interaction. That’s okay, Tobio understands to some degree. 

Fukurodani is here too, one of the three Tokyo representatives. Bokuto is talking as enthusiastically as ever to Hinata as Akaashi watches on, offering Tobio the slightest smile. There’s Nekoma too. Tobio is actually surprised at the amount of people he seems to know, not that it makes that big of a difference when compared to the many more people he does not know.

But it doesn’t affect him, because nerves are something he does not understand.

Volleyball is what he has been raised on, and the story of little baby Tobio’s grip on Miwa’s volleyball has been told over the dining table about a million times. Or, it used to be told. No one really has dinner together in his household anymore. 

He doesn’t understand why Hinata has to take a toilet break when he’s extremely panicked, why Asahi expresses doubts over things that would go away if they just focused and played to their best, why Yachi and Yamaguchi concoct dastardly scenarios which only make them feel worse. Green in the gills, like fish out of water.

To Tobiio, it’s simple. There is volleyball and there is him. There is his team, and the opponents. There is all the work he has done to get to this place and all the plays he is confident in. So why should he be nervous? Why should he tremble? Why should a king let his hair go grey over storms that will pass, when his fortress overlooks the entire land, guarded by an army at his whim, by skills that he has honed since childhood?

Tobio is not what he’d call overly-confident. But he knows what he can do and what he can’t do, and really, that’s all he needs to be able to play.

However, the first match trips him up. His world is tilting and misshapen, all the pinpoint accuracy he has drilled into himself falls askew under blaring lights that burn far too bright.

But he is Kageyama Tobio and he knows his team trusts him to sort this out. So he steps back, grows accustomed to his surroundings and does exactly that. They didn’t grant him a crown just for namesake, and he has to utilise the wisdom that comes with it, fixing his worldview bit by bit until it’s like he was never deterred.

They win.

Tobio carries that victory with him all afternoon, stopping by the kiosk to buy a new shirt. You can never have too many setter soul t-shirts after all.

It is there that he runs into Hoshiumi, and Hinata begins acting like his overly-competitive self all over again. He knows the rest of the team will call him a hypocrite for that, but they didn’t see Shouyou compare heights with Hoshiumi on their first meeting like traditional posturing ritual from the land of short people. 

Still, Hoshiumi didn’t seem to mind; in fact he was just as, if not more, enthusiastic. And when he walks away, satisfied that he is superior in height, Hinata turns and gives Tobio a look.

The look.

The one where a storm is brewing behind the auburn gates of his eyes, flickering, lighting up something Tobio doesn’t fully understand. He looks like they’ve just taken a game that went into full-sets, like they’re about to fucking win nationals, and the next step is to keep playing. He looks like he did on the day they first met back in middle school, when, despite the odds, Hinata chased every ball like it was the last and spoke words that chill Tobio’s spine to this very day: ‘we’ve not lost yet.’

Tobio is familiar with that look. What he doesn’t seem to recognise is why the hell Hinata has it on his face right now.

He’s only left more confused by what he utters next, lips giving way to a splitting grin: “I’m glad we came here.”

He gives no context, but that doesn’t exactly surprise Tobio. Hinata often leaves him in the dust, chasing after an answer until it slaps him in the face like a well-timed hurricane. Doesn’t mean he likes feeling like this. Doesn’t mean he won’t pester Hinata and call him a dumbass in hopes that he explains.

Not that he will give any answers that aren’t just noises instead of real words. 

Tobio doesn’t let it bother him though; he’s still riding the wave of a win and the electric feeling of being able to keep playing.

But the sweet taste of victory is dulled quickly by one glance at the tournament brackets. A metallic taste fills Tobio’s mouth as he steps away; it lingers all the way back to the hotel, festers on his tongue all through the night.

Inarizaki. Miya Atsumu. They’re playing them next.

The thought makes his stomach do flips, but he knows it isn’t nerves. It can’t be. Kageyama Tobio doesn’t get nerves.

Instead of dwelling on the thought until he is reduced to nothing more than a madman, Tobio forces himself to sleep, cradling saccharine dreams of winning and trying to quell the sparks that kickstart his mind at the thought of beating Miya Atsumu.

He sleeps well, despite the feeling that his body is running on overdrive.

❧

Tobio sees him mere minutes before the match, a sole, tall figure standing alone by the rafters. 

There’s an infuriating self-assurance to him. It influences his every move, fills out his shoulders so they seem broader, lifts up his chin so he seems taller. The straw-yellow of his hair is garish under the fluorescents and Tobio sort of wants to tell him he should probably buy some toner. He can practically hear Miwa’s annoyed rants about proper hair colour maintenance and damage control.

It’s a very distracting and random thought to have, especially now. Tobio’s usually never thinking about anything in the last few minutes leading up to a game. 

And then, for some reason, as though he could feel Tobio’s eyes on him, Atsumu looks up, their gazes meeting from across the hall. 

The smirk that cuts across Atsumu’s mouth makes Tobio think of the word sleazy. That same burning feeling from the youth camp itches underneath his skin, gnaws at the skin of his palms, gathers in the hollow of his throat like an allergic swell. 

He wants to glare back harder; he ends up being the first to look away.

❧

The game against Inarizaki has barely begun when Tobio feels it. 

He feels the change before it even takes place. He knows this feeling. He recognises the stiffness in the air, the way it is crackling, begging to be set alight, the way it heaves into his lungs without warning, accompanied by the slamming of shoes on the court, thudding like drums performing the death march. 

The cavalry has arrived, and Miya Osamu is charging, but he is not the mastermind of this attack. He is the cannon that somebody else is igniting. And Tobio can see it, see it so painstakingly crystal clear that the world has halted in slow motion.

Tobio can see the fire burning in Atsumu’s palms, flickering with an intensity akin to that of a whip cracking against his poised fingers. The flames are everywhere, in his bronze eyes, in the sweat trickling down his face, left on the ground where he plants his feet, trainers squeaking under the weight of a jump yet to come. And the sky, the stadium lights, they are dull when compared to the way Atsumu shines, to the way he burns with the intensity of a thousand stars.

At this moment Tobio knows—right down to his very bones —that Miya Atsumu will burn him, will set this court alight and leave Tobio's kingdom in ashes. The hunger in his eyes speaks for itself; it will consume Tobio's talents, scorch through every wall between them until nothing remains.

It is his stratagem, a glorious array of his ingenuity, of everything that makes him Miya Atsumu . Commander of his fleet, leader of this initiative, king in his own right. 

A tremulous breath, a sharp inhale of anticipation as Tobio watches, wide-eyed, wondering if he will do it. Will he really pull this off?

Fire is contagious, and Tobio's abdomen feels soaked in kerosene, as Atsumu winds his hands to strike the match. Strike me , Tobio finds himself thinking, finds himself yearning for it. It would be catastrophic for his team, but he wants to know, even if that means burning alive. 

Unadulterated fear. It swishes in his stomach as the ball zips through the air, encased in sparks, Atsumu's soul on display—burning, blazing, beautiful . Right into the hands of his brother who carries out his commands with a simple strike, battering through Karasuno's defences.

The explosion lands with a boom that ripples through Tobio's skin, shards of its debris striking him somewhere deep within his chest. And the alarm catches fire at the sight of Atsumu's ravening smirk. He is as insatiable as the fuel that runs through his veins, as untamed, as dauntless, as intriguing. 

Perhaps more. Perhaps he is a deity, a sun god, Apollo himself, flaxen locks bleeding into a halo of sunlight where his crown should sit. Whatever he is, whoever he is, Tobio decides that he is a real contender. 

Perhaps the greatest contender to ever challenge his kingdom. 

Tobio thinks fire destroys, enflames all that it kisses with its recreant lips, strikes dread into even the most guarded of hearts. And there is truth to that; it is reflected in the faces of his entire team, especially those of his coaches, pale and shocked. But despite it all, there's a question he knows he shouldn't ask sitting right on the tip of his tongue. He tests its weight against the barriers that are his teeth, his eyes meeting Atsumu's bright ones.

He wants to ask, wants to know: who are you, Miya Atsumu? Are you like me? Do you understand?

Other setters have kept him an arms length away, they call his skills ‘genius’, something to be born with and not learned. But here is Atsumu, defiant, thinking nothing of it as he replicates the very thing that separated Tobio from everyone else. 

It’s terrifying, frustrating— amazing .

There is something like admiration emanating from the burns Atsumu has singed into him, maybe it's an odd feeling to want to cross the net and question the opposition. Maybe it is. Maybe Tobio feels that way regardless, dazed by the fumes of smoke now clouding his vulnerable lungs, intoxicating him.

Tobio has felt admiration before, for every setter. For Oikawa, it was a smouldering flame set alight by his young heart, now existing as a few memorable burns that he cherishes. Because there is still a chance to be as great as him. He still wants to be someone Oikawa acknowledges. 

For Sugawara, his admiration exists as a few homely flickers, like the comforting crackles of a fireplace on a snowy winter's night. Akaashi and Kenma are their own form of support, unique and commendable, trusted and held close to his heart—warm like the summer sun.

But Atsumu is a raging bonfire, a volcano that has suddenly erupted, and there is beauty in his destruction, there is skill in his coordinated attacks. He does not call him genius and reject him, nor does he hold him on a pedestal out of reach. No, Miya Atsumu is fire and impatience, a childlike adoration for volleyball, an unquenchable desire to be better. He calls Tobio a goody-two-shoes and steals the quick that he worked so hard on. The quick that Tobio crafted with Hinata, poached in front of his very eyes; not viewed as something impossible, or something detestable. 

Not genius; just volleyball.

Atsumu is someone who puts them on equal ground. He isn't all that different, Tobio decides as the world around him gives into a hopeless bow to the older setter’s majesty.

Fire burns, but fire is life; it is what provides light to their little planet, insignificant as it is. Miya Atsumu fights, with his claws and his teeth, he sends his soldiers forth with sets that are weapons of their own. 

He is destruction. 

But he is life too, life breathed into Tobio through the flames lapping at his awe-struck figure.

The copy of the quick right off the fly like that is a challenge, a brazen remark that screams ‘I can do anything you can do’ . A declaration that their kingdoms are at war and they will fight to their bones and teeth. That there will be hellfire raining from the sky, melting down the towers of gold that Karasuno is made of. 

But Tobio can’t help the bubbling excitement rising from the ashes all around him, because this is it. 

There is someone just like him. 

Tobio is understood . 

Understood in a different way to his team, to being crowned by Hinata, now he is understood by the opposition, by a setter or at least there is a chance that he will be, someday. He knows at this very moment that no matter where he goes, now or in the future, there will be an emperor of equal stateliness, of equal skill and sovereignty, waiting across the net, across the borders of their kingdoms. Always ready to fight. Always ready to set him alight. 

To make him feel alive.

The match progresses and Tobio fights harder, because Atsumu will not back down. None of Inarizaki will. But Tobio promised him that there would be no scrubs to play against and he intends to keep that promise.

Then Atsumu floors him yet again. This time with less violence, without sending forth one of his hitters, his loyal subjects that he does not hesitate to walk amongst, as if they were equals. This time Atsumu bends himself backwards, ignites himself with a sort of dedication that can only leave Tobio watching on as he sets with all ten fingers, like it is nothing under the pressure of his entire burning body held up by his thighs. Like a setter through and through.

Tobio can’t see himself right now, but he has a feeling that his lips have quirked up into a feral grin. Deep within his body, he can feel his every organ flare up, enkindled by passion that is not his, but resonates so strongly that it may as well be.

He gets it now. He understands what Hinata meant.

“Hey. Hinata.” Tobio is surprised that his lips managed to part and give way to his strained voice, “I’m glad I came here too.”

I’m glad I could play against a setter like Atsumu.

If Kageyama is king, with flowing robes and a glorious crown, Atsumu is the same, a foreign monarch here to mark his place even without a diadem to show off.

And if Atsumu is fire, Kageyama is a phoenix, brought back to life by the aftermath of the wildfire that is his plays. 

Reborn by their battle.

Chapter Text

Stadium lights bleed alabaster all over the wizened earth beneath Atsumu’s feet, the court ravaged by a fearsome war, a clash between provinces on opposing sides of Japan.

East vs West.

Miyagi vs Hyogo.

Kageyama Tobio vs Miya Atsumu.

The origins of their tension can very easily be traced back to the under nineteen’s training camp, where the blame would then be placed quite readily at Atsumu’s feet. Not that he would complain about it; he’s not a blithering coward, he says what he means and he means what he says. No exceptions. 

And Kageyama Tobio, in Atsumu’s not-so-humble opinion, is an appalling dud of a setter. That is not to say he’s not good , of course he is, how else would he have ended up at the national youth training camp, but rather, he’s like being promised a dragon and then being presented with a toothless kitty-cat with moth-eaten costume wings on instead. A hollow, hollow , shell of a setter. 

Atsumu had been informed of an aggressive player, a sharp-witted, fearless commander, an emperor who ruled the court with an iron fist. A boy-king with a collected and blunt demeanour, unafraid to tussle. He had to have been something , if he managed to beat Ushijima and Shiratorizawa. 

In short, before he’d met Tobio, Atsumu had been excited to size up the new competition. Weigh his worth like gold. And upon first impression, Kageyama Tobio had been exactly as he was described, a broody-eyed, quiet boy whose blackened stare invited challenge. Tall and lean and ridiculously pretty, in a lost, unaware sort of way. 

And yet Atsumu was severely disappointed. 

Despite that outward presentation of perfect, princely deportment—intense glares, choppy bangs and forthright answers—the real Kageyama Tobio was a well of squandered skill, raw, unrefined talent wasted on a meek, skittish little thing that deferred to his hitters’ every command. Oh, he was sweet, yes, talented to a freakish degree too—blessed with pin-point accuracy and frightening speeds—but he was no King of the Court. Just a boy dressed up in a role that did not fit .

Perhaps, Atsumu would’ve understood, if Tobio seemed the fearful type, a trembling thing scared of his own shadow, but he very clearly wasn’t . In fact, sometimes, Atsumu spied the grit of his teeth in protest, the burn of a glare emerging in the depths of his blue eyes, only to be quashed. His frustrations swallowed down instead of spat out—even when he was right . 

That, to Atsumu, was even worse. It made him cowardly , instead of just incompetent. And Atsumu could stand wimps even less than he could scrubs. 

That was why he’d been convinced Karasuno would, ultimately, be a quick conquest for Inarizaki. Done and dusted, just like that. 

Except now, in Tokyo, at nationals, Atsumu watches the ball slam on the wrong side of the net, the blare of the klaxon ringing in his ears long after it goes off. 

He wipes away sweat with the back of his hand, tributaries of his exertion, trickles of crushed diamonds that glisten and prick his delicate skin. The sight of the net between Inarizaki and the victors steals all emotions from him until he is void of everything.

What happened?

Void of everything but that one thought.

What happened to Tobio?

Void of everything but the stinging of air forcing its way down his throat, invading his lungs where it is both needed yet unwelcome. Breathing in the next moment feels like accepting defeat, accepting that Karasuno had bested them; that their good was just not fucking good enough.

But who needs memories, eh?

The banner stretches from stand to stand, the backdrop of Atsumu's fall, of a quick set halted by hands that move just as swift as his and his twin, by Kageyama Tobio and Hinata Shouyou.

The glorious Roman Empire, built by their hands, the foundation for world domination, for winning nationals; they set the earth on fire, smoke billowing from the pillars of marble, each one carving out another member of Inarizaki's volleyball team, cracked and breaking. All their effort, everything they had done in this match thrown into the fucking river, the riches that Atsumu had stolen from a king's treasury, snatched from Tobio’s palms, gone within an instant. Lost in a sea of blue, never to be his again.

Sure, he can use that quick all he wants in the future, but right now? Right now it is the double-edged sword that has finally cut him, the metaphorical arrow in the eye as he loses to a boy-king, someone who he thought would crumble in the heat of battle.

But Tobio’s no goody-goody, no pushover—not anymore.

He is a mighty emperor, yet still rough around the edges, a few bare threads of soul remain, and Atsumu wants to pull and twirl them around his fingers so he can unravel this seemingly-unshakeable king before him. But he knows Tobio won’t let him get that close, or maybe he will, god maybe. It’s all up in the air, all a big fucking maybe, because Tobio, as Atsumu has learned the hard way, is not so black and white.

He evolves, like the princes before him; he changes tactics, commands armies, cuts off the men that do not satisfy, forces them to greater heights. 

It is as though Atsumu is seeing him for the very first time, and god is it terrifying to watch.

Terrifying and exhilarating .

Kageyama Tobio is not Caesar; his team trusts him too greatly. They spoil him, pamper him like royalty and tremble under his demanding sets. With one stretch of his finger, one push from his palms, his soldiers spring forth like his sets are royal decrees. They would never strike him down.

But there is no doubt that Karasuno is Rome, an empire stretching across the land, made from the pieces of sovereignties they had already invaded—the teams in Miyagi, Shiratorizawa, Tsubakihara Academy, and now, Inarizaki.

They weren’t built in one day, and Atsumu could not tear them apart in one blow. Not even with Osamu by his side. It leaves a bitter taste on his tongue—loss, like the metallic burn of blood from a burst lip. If loss were a person, Atsumu would beat the ever-loving shit out of him the first chance he gets.

But loss is a feeling; loss is just a smidge more potent than an all-encompassing now. And for a brief moment, time feels irrelevant, the past and memories blend with the steps Atsumu is taking towards the net, clouding his heavy head. Loss is a beast, untamable, burning. Loss is the handing over of his kingdom, the crossing of his team’s name on the tournament brackets, the sight of a fellow setter, staring at him with a wreath of golden victory settled on his raven locks.

Atsumu moves along the net shaking hands, yet all the while his brain is occupied somewhere in the past, separated from the big flashing neon sign of now fucking what? Now what will you do, Miya Atsumu? Because questions like that can be answered everyday, but concepts like that of Kageyama Tobio —he sucks in a breath as Tobio stands across him, hand outstretched, face unreadable, a smug monarch climbing over the ruins of Inarizaki’s kingdom to claw his way to the top—concepts like that are fleeting, and they occupy more space in Atsumu’s mind by the second.

“Good game, Miya-san.”

Atsumu doesn’t know if he is making it up, but he swears there is something amused in his eyes; he swears on all things holy and scared, that Kageyama Tobio is taunting him.

For a brief second he feels like a jester invited to a king’s court, here to dance at his command until his knees give out, but a demeaning thought like that burns up at the memory of Tobio’s setter dump, of a tilted head and hungry eyes and a rapacious smirk that just scream ‘I win’ .

Atsumu wants to scowl, honest to god, he wants to frown until his face permanently creases but he can’t. It’s like his body won’t listen, and his mouth has a will of its own, coiling into a leer filled to the brim with demur.

Tobio’s won—this time. He gets to parade around in velvet vanity and silken superiority—this time. He’ll shake Tobio’s hand and accept defeat—this time.

He meets Tobio’s palms under the net and swears there’s a jolt of electricity in the younger setter’s touch. Then he tilts his head, takes a moment to look at him, to really examine his newest rival. The anthracite of his hair falls down his forehead in streams, damp and sticking to his reddened face, halcyon highlights of his skin aglow with aurelian triumph.

Something about this moment, of Tobio standing there, cerulean eyes piercing through Atsumu like he is nothing but a stepping stone, makes the older setter’s body catch alight. His erratic heart, rattling around his chest, demanding strife and conflict and Kageyama Tobio’s downfall—it’s almost too much yet not enough. He has wanted to wipe that cocksure smirk off Tobio’s face since his setter dump; he wants to tear him apart bit by bit, slowly, wants to bring Rome to its knees, wants to be the barbarians that tore down an empire with their bare hands.

“Yeah.” Atsumu squeezes Tobio’s hand out of nothing but pettiness. 

Osamu always did say he was a sore loser. Atsumu doesn’t care; winning is everything, winning is how he gets to keep playing, gets to discard the past for now.

Tobio doesn’t seem particularly affected by the pressure Atsumu tried to apply, staring back at him with that same unperturbed frown. That only adds kindling to the fire blazing in Atsumu’s chest; does Tobio even know that he’s pressing all his buttons at once? Does he enjoy getting Atsumu this worked up?

“I’ll see ya’ later, Tobio-kun.” He lets go of the younger setter’s hand before he says something stupid, and instead, shifts his eyes to his partner.

That kid has Tobio wrapped around his finger, he’s dangerous, crazy —a real hungry spiker. Atsumu wants to be pushed like that; wants to make him dance to his tune, wants to bamboozle blockers as he commands this knight that even Tobio cannot bend to his will.

So, Atsumu points at him, at Shouyou, and makes a promise, “One day, I’ll set for ya.”

He knows Shouyou will bloom into a monster; like Osamu said, when you take a bite of something it only makes you hungrier. Hinata’s love for volleyball is all consuming; he wonders what it’s like to get caught up in his whirlwind.

Shrimpy looks taken aback; Tobio just looks on blankly. Not even the hint of interest on his face, let alone annoyance. Is he made of steel and marble? Unfeeling and royal?

Oh, but he knows that’s untrue. He sees now, what an easy misconception that is. A thorny little trap that he, like many, had tripped right into. 

Atsumu has seen the way those bluebell eyes flicker with the flame of competition, has seen the goody-two-shoes disappear right before his eyes as a sage king takes over. He knows that he has lost to Tobio, but he’s still a sore fucking loser, and he won’t let this go to Tobio’s head.

“After I crush y’all next year.” He spits out venom, eyes back on Tobio, hoping to burn holes in his chest, to make him weak in the knees, to shove him off the cliff edge. To make him remember that Miya Atsumu will always be one step ahead of him, always chasing the future, always thinking about what he’s going to do next.

So Tobio may wear the crown now, but Atsumu will snatch it back; he will make sure Tobio never forgets that they’re side by side, neck and neck, running towards the finishing line.

❧

Karasuno loses two matches later. Atsumu watches.

He watches as Hinata flies too close to the sun and ends up hurtling back down to earth to join the mortals who reside there. He watches as Karasuno begins to fumble around him, dazed by the events, by his insistence and his tears. He watches Hoshiumi make a promise from across the net, a promise that he will wait for Shouyou. He watches Tobio’s back, doesn’t get to see his face nor hear his voice.

And he wonders—he doesn’t know why but he does because there’s something so fucking alluring about Tobio that it pisses him off—he wonders what he feels. He wonders if his voice shakes, if that perfect facade finally cracks, if a part of him feels broken.

He wonders to no avail, watching as the city of Rome scorches at the hands of barbarians, finally meeting its fated end—ruins and shambles of what could have been. For Rome too, can fall.

Atsumu doesn’t linger to see Kageyama bowing to another team’s might; he wants to wait until next year to savour that sight. He doesn’t know why he’s so confident that they’ll face each other again, perhaps most people would assume Karasuno’s wings have been cut off for good, but Atsumu isn't like most people. Kageyama Tobio isn't like most people.

They will rise again, they will fight again—like phoenixes taking flight.

And next time, Atsumu will make sure it is Kageyama Tobio on his knees, with Atsumu’s sword pressed to his throat—a fitting fall for a king.

Chapter Text

Faces new and old, line themselves up at the national training camp that year. 

Tobio isn’t all that interested in any of them; sure, competition is competition, but there’s no need for him to linger around boys that rub him the wrong way. He is certain that they are quite good at what they do—they must have the skill to be here—but they are also unfamiliar carvings imposing on a place he had thought he'd memorised. 

It's frustrating trying to learn new names so he doesn't; he keeps his distance, opting to stick around those that he is familiar with—stone men chiselled into permanent existence, permanent residence in his memories. 

One statue in particular, demands his attention like no other, just like the last time he was here. A king, carved out of marble, the factor that decides win and loss for his team, situated on a golden chessboard that Tobio cannot help but want to play a match on. 

Feasibly, Tobio was aware of the inevitable, right from the moment he was informed of his selection, but that still does not mean he’s prepared to come face to face with Miya Atsumu. Not so quickly, and certainly not off the court. 

At least, that’s what he tells himself when the mere sight of Atsumu outside the stadium entrance makes his heart drop and his stomach flip. He forgot, somehow, the aggravating oppression Atsumu’s very presence brought to any room. It’s annoying just how easily he slides up next to Tobio, a faint smile on his pink lips. Dark red tracksuit, unstyled blond hair, sun-kissed skin—casual and unbothered in a way that made Tobio very bothered.

“Hey, Tobio-kun.” Deep hazel eyes lock onto Tobio, a roguishness in them that Tobio cannot fully describe. Cool and hot at the same time; a dizzying contradiction that sets off alarm bells in his head, especially when Atsumu’s arm comes to rest on the line of his shoulders. “Wasn’t sure if I’d be seein’ ya’ again.” 

Tobio fights the urge to squirm, instantly pissed off by the not-so-subtle heft of spite in Atsumu’s teasing tone. There’s a shadow of another boy in Tobio’s mind’s eye. He would much rather not repeat that experience, so if this was Atsumu’s opening gambit, then maybe Tobio knew exactly the kind of player he was dealing with. 

Still, the memories of nationals beg to differ. The stolen quick; the dancing of his pupils saying anything you can I do, I can do too. Atsumu never offers phoney, saccharine smiles, not even now with one arm slung around him, he simply smirks, armed with a shit-eating grin and provocation glinting in his eyes. Tobio doesn’t know whether he appreciates the small mercy bluntness or not, especially when he considers that not being fake doesn’t preclude teasing. A convoluted array of plays that just leave him confused and full of the desire to flip the board and quit. 

But before Tobio has a chance to formulate his next move, Hoshiumi comes striding over and Atsumu pulls away, which is probably for the best. He would much prefer to be left alone than to be one-on-one with Atsumu any time soon.

Unfortunately, they do end up being around each other all week whether it be on the court or simply when all the boys break off into clusters during breaks and lunch. 

Tobio hadn’t really expect to be swept up into the same group as Atsumu—he’s younger, after all, and he has a feeling that Atsumu does not particularly like him if their exchanges at last year’s training camp and then at nationals are to be taken into account—but Hoshiumi calls him over into their little group and that seems to be that.

It helps that Atsumu is familiar, magnetic almost, but sometimes Tobio feels like he is following him like a lost fucking puppy. He also feels like the older setter is enjoying stringing him along, as though Tobio’s his little puppet, hazel eyes glinting with the same heat he brings prior to a match. Kageyama hates it, but he doesn’t know anyone else enough to sit with, and he doesn’t want to be alone, and he sort of likes the other boys, so putting up with Miya Atsumu is his only option. 

Despite that, he and Atsumu do not speak all that much to one another. Tobio doesn’t know whether to feel annoyed or relieved. Relieved is probably better, though his chest feels a little tight every time he looks up and sees Atsumu staring right back at him, his dark eyes hard and his expression unreadable. He never seems to be embarrassed that Tobio caught him staring and just keeps looking, like he expects Tobio to be the demure one and cave in, look away and lose.

‘Yer a real goody-two-shoes, ain’tcha?’  

Those words still haunt him. He can still hear them coiling around his brainstem, burning hot against the shells of his ears, like Atsumu had pushed right into his space to say them though that is very much not true. No, the truth is Atsumu looked down on him that day, both literally and figuratively; he expected Tobio to just take it. 

But Tobio is no pushover, he is not so brittle, not so fragile. He refuses to crumble because he is made from marble, not sand, and Atsumu should know that by now, should have learned it at nationals last year, so he stares right back. 

The delighted curl of Atsumu’s lip in response somehow feels worse; it churns a twisted feeling low in Tobio’s stomach, searing, nebulous, entirely too unnerving. A man made of stone should not be able to feel heat, and yet his entire body feels aflame. 

That happens a lot, if he’s honest. With every lingering look, with every upturned smirk, with the short-lived, perhaps accidental, dragging of Atsumu’s fingers across the fabric of Tobio’s shirt between matches, and the electricity crackling between them no matter what side of the court they’re on, Tobio can’t help but want to pull him aside and ask him. 

Ask him what the hell he wants; inform him that he won’t lose whatever game Atsumu is trying to play with him.

The chance to do so doesn’t come to him until the very last day of camp, the evening before each kingdom takes back its prince, now armed with new knowledge of their enemies. 

The last game Tobio plays ends with him and Atsumu across the net—a pale shadow of battles to come, of promises made on holy ground and pawns moving around at the command of their rulers.

And once all the artillery is stashed away, and all the soldiers are gone, two monarchs remain in this haven of volleyball, alone, playing a game together like little children, as though they will not be at each other’s throats the second any of this becomes real—at nationals, that is. They may not talk to each other all that much, but this, they can do. 

Volleyball comes as easy to them as living. It breathes life into their stone bodies, effigies moving like princes and kings. 

Tobio wants to ask him then, when they both collapse onto the ground, sweaty and panting, sharing one water bottle between them. What’s your problem with me? 

It is not that hard of a question to ask, but the moment feels too fragile, it feels like he’s moulding clay with his hands and one wrong move will cause the whole thing to fall apart. Tobio doesn’t want to break this moment. He doesn’t want to shatter the tentative peace. 

Not when Atsumu rests his temple against the wall and looks at him, the faintest of smiles on his lips for the briefest of moments. Not when, for this one moment, it seems like they’ve reached a truce.

He’s lost track of how long they’d played for. But it must’ve been ages, judging from the jelly-like sensation in his legs and the sweat marring Atsumu’s flushed skin, drenching the thin cotton of his black t-shirt until it stuck to his back. 

Atsumu, Tobio thinks not for the first time, is an astounding volleyball player. Throughout camp, Tobio had watched him, eagerly eyeing the arc of him in the air when he played striker, the strength of his forearms in defence; in the last little set they’d just played, Tobio had Atsumu as his striker, the rush of commanding another king leaving him a little dizzy. He’s spent days now, listening in awe when Atsumu served, already working on becoming a tri-wielder, the resounding smack ringing in Tobio's ears. 

But the most impressive thing about Atsumu will always be his setting. He’d thought for sure the selectors would have picked Atsumu by now. It seems redundant to bring him to the training camp again when he’s ready for their team; Tobio thinks there isn’t anyone who sets quite like him, at least not here.

Of course, Tobio knows he is just as good. He’s not arrogant, but he’s not insecure, not over volleyball. Yet there is something very magnetic about Atsumu’s plays, a casual loftiness, juxtaposed by an intense, undeniable passion. He has been on the receiving end of that multiple times now, acting as striker to Atsumu’s setter both times at camp, and each time had almost felt like he had improved drastically. 

Before, it had only agitated him. Now, it fills him with awe. Tobio knows a good setter makes his strikers feel stronger, but the way he and Atsumu go about it is so…different. Oh, they are both demanding, of course—Tobio’s stepped into that role over the last year—but their approach will never be exactly the same, he just can’t put his finger on what it is exactly. 

Not that it matters. It’s just what makes Atsumu so fun to play against. That raw, unyielding love for volleyball that Tobio understands all too well. 

The older boy is strangely silent, star-fished out on the linoleum, bangs messy and dark with sweat. There’s a furrow in his brows, a contemplative twist to his mouth. It is a sleepwalking sort of peace—hazy, unrealised. 

Of course, it does not last. 

“You know, Miya-san,” Tobio murmurs, barely thinking, “I didn’t think you’d be here this year.” 

Atsumu’s face shutters a little and his entire body goes still. No breathing, no movement at all. It is with treacle-dripping slowness that he sits up, propping himself onto his palms and staring right at Tobio. His face is unreadable, expressionless. Stone features falling back into their practised expressions, heated annoyance and indifferent avoidance. A slate slab of nothing, except for the horrible intensity in his eyes and in the low, low tone of his flat voice. 

“And what exactly made you think that?”

Tobio shrugs, “I thought you would have been selected. You clearly don't need any more training.” 

It’s the truth. Tobio can’t fathom any way that Atsumu is not ready. Sure, he’s not a selector, but he knows a damn good player when he sees one. And Atsumu is leagues better than just good. 

However, there is an alacritous whirlwind of expression on the older boy’s face. Cracked marble mein revealing a hundred different thoughts at breakneck speed. For a long moment, he seemingly settles on barely contained offence, suddenly getting onto his feet to give Tobio the dirtiest look imaginable: thick brows furrowed, nose curled up and mouth puckered. 

When his mouth drops open, Tobio expects something mean to come hurtling out, though he has no idea why. 

Instead: “C’mon, s’late. Let’s put this shit away.” 

With that, Atsumu brusquely takes off, stepping into the supply closet without a glance back.  

Tobio’s ears feel hot. Awkwardly, he grabs a few cones off the ground just to give his hands something to do. He’s not exactly sure what he said wrong, or how he misread the situation, because he was just trying to compliment Atsumu. 

The truth is, Tobio had hoped, for some stupid naive reason, that he and Atsumu would be cool now. When Atsumu stole his quick last year, despite the instant stomach-dropping dread, Tobio had felt seen, had felt as though the two of them were carved from the same monstrous materials, and he had hoped that Atsumu might’ve felt the same, that they may have even become friends. But somehow, this time around they are even more distant than the last youth camp.

Is he really that bad at making friends? He never really thought it was something he was particularly good at, given his blunt nature, but is he so bad that Atsumu hates him so wholly? 

Would that really be so surprising? Tobio’s done it before. There are a plethora of people out there who cannot stand him, for good reason too; in the past, he has been difficult, and over-eager, and harsh, and demanding, and rude. Karasuno accept him the way he is, they’re helping him accept it too, and most days now Tobio feels as though he’s reached a nice balance, neither the king nor a slave to his strikers, a change ignited by Atsumu himself, so why can he not seem to see it? Why does he view him with such disdain if his problem was with Tobio’s playing style? 

The night has grown, inky arms stretching over the sky that is visible from the gymnasium windows, and Tobio finally decides to go put the rest of the things away when it becomes clear Atsumu is not coming back out of the equipment cupboard. 

He walks in and doesn’t say anything, placing the cones and volleyballs where they should be, feeling the burn of Atsumu’s eyes on him, the door shutting behind him. Soon enough, the older boy clears his throat, a harshness to his voice. 

“Where the fuck were ya’ at Inter-High?”

Atsumu doesn’t ask.

He demands.

He demands without towering over Tobio or forcing physical dominance. He demands with the tilt of his head, a shift of his crown, the narrowing of his eyes, a raised hand, the one that sends forth swathes of his soldiers. Tobio stills, trying to survive under that hungry, seemingly-pissed-off gaze, pinpointed on him like there’s no tomorrow.

Atsumu prods at his chest, directly where his heart lies in between the bars of his ribs, imprisoned and rattling like the bones of sinners beyond the grave.

“We lost to Dateko.” 

It’s a simple answer; it’s the truth. Atsumu isn’t pleased.

“I can’t beat ya’ if yer not fuckin’ there...Ya’ do remember my promise, right?” Atsumu doesn’t lean against the wall next to Tobio even when the younger boy shifts over for him. Instead, he stands in front of him, hands stuffed in his pockets as he maintains eye contact, adamant if anything.

“Of course.” Tobio pauses, looking up at Atsumu, not one to shy away from a challenge, “And I’m going to make sure you don’t fulfil it.”

There’s a laugh from the older setter that may as well be a cackle, echoing in the room, sinking into Tobio’s skin and converting into sparks of cold that overtake every bone that makes up his spine. And his hands— 

Tobio feels his breath shake a little but he is confused; why is he breathless? He hasn’t done anything exerting in the last ten minutes—

Atsumu’s hands first find the wall, caging him in like he is his personal trophy, but then they shift, fisting into his collar and bunching up Tobio’s shirt so the lines of his hipbone, jutting out from his shorts, are revealed.

Atsumu’s mouth is doing that thing. That god-awful thing that makes Tobio’s stomach go tight; his eyes are carrying twin flames, ablaze like that moment he stole the quick. Tobio’s skin feels cold with kerosene, not yet healed from the last time Atsumu became a walking, talking, fighting firestorm. And this time he is close enough to touch, close enough to leave third-degree burns. It feels like they are on the court, at war again, no longer separated by the mesh of barbed wire they call a net. They’re in the space between two opposing sides, meeting up in no man’s land where any action can be fatal. It’s stupid to linger in between two warring factions, but Atsumu doesn’t seem to want to let go, and Tobio isn’t about to let him have the satisfaction of being the last man standing.

“I don’t need any more training but yer gonna beat me?” Atsumu sneers, voice laced with all the things that rile Tobio up, a few splutters of molten rock, magma and lava pouring itself all over Tobio’s exposed hips, defined lines of his stomach sinking in and out in shaky breaths that invite in agitation. He clicks his tongue, “Mighty words from a guy who couldn’t make it to Inter-High.” 

The younger boy tries to struggle, lips snapping into that glare and pout combo that he just can’t help, and he grits his teeth, annoyance spilling over the edge of the goblet, as his tense voice begins syllables of pique that are swiftly stifled under the press of Atsumu’s mouth to his mouth, quite effectively shutting him up.

Tobio’s eyes widen at the abrupt contact of chapped lips, letting out a hiss of pain at the clanking of teeth at this awkward angle. But Atsumu doesn’t seem to mind, pressing against him with a fiery intent, and then pulling back just as suddenly as he leaned in.

Tobio’s chest heaves, jaw slack at what just happened. Atsumu doesn’t say anything, which is so out of character that Tobio thinks he must be fucking with him; that little glint of mischeif sure makes it seem that way.

“What the fuck was that for?” His voice breaks, higher and more breathless than he intended it to be.

Tobio hasn’t been kissed before—not until now; not until him.

He’s almost seventeen but things like that never interested him, not enough to act out anyway.

Of course he has thought about kissing people before—boys in particular—boys like Oikawa Tooru in middle school and Kunimi Akira before things between them went to shit and Hinata Shouyou early in their first year.

But he’s never acted on it, least of all in a fucking equipment room at a fucking nation youth training camp with a guy who he has vowed to crush with his own two hands.

And yet, something about it is exhilarating; something about it gets Tobio to fixate on those fleeting thoughts about boys. Pretty boys who Da Vinci would have yearned to paint. Loud boys who can compel a whole room with their presence. Boys with a permanent smirk and gorgeous, terra-cotta eyes. Boys with bleached hair and a parted fringe and an undercut that Tobio oh so desperately wants to run a hand through—to pull, tug, intertwine his fingers with.

Just as a way to win whatever game they’re playing, whatever new competition Atsumu has started between them.

“I don’t know,” Atsumu says, but the fact that he practically sings his response suggests otherwise, and he stands there, not letting go. Tobio doesn’t attempt to move, holding eye contact so he doesn’t lose, “But I win.”

“Win what?”

“This.” He shrugs his shoulders like what they’re doing is supposed to be obvious.

Tobio has half a mind to knee Atsumu in his crotch and leave him on the ground to suffer, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t because he’s too busy staring at this boy. A boy who does not ask before he takes and takes far more than he should. A boy that Tobio lets steal from him, despite the wartime declaration hanging in between them. A boy that has just announced victory in a tucked away corner of the gymnasium, greedily latching onto the pot of gold meant for no one’s hands to hold, least of all Miya Atsumu.

Tobio won’t let him get away with this; he won’t ever lose to him, not now—not so quickly.

It feels like they have just played a match, feels like they’ve both taken a set and that kiss is match point. It makes his blood rush, so Tobio scrunches his brows, concocting a stratagem to turn the tides in his favour, to trip up a monarch who got too big for his boots. Emperor Caligula attempted to wage war on the sea; Tobio will turn the entire ocean against him with his lips.

Tobio is taller than he was at the last training camp, but Atsumu is still the larger out of the two of them, a little broader too. After all, he is a whole year older than him, so even though it bruises his ego to do so, Tobio tilts his head up to meet Atsumu’s lips. The older setter’s eyes widen ever so slightly, and it amuses Kageyama to know that even Miya Atsumu is not unshakable, but the notion only lasts in the fleeting second that Atsumu takes to stop faltering.

And then Tobio’s back is flush against the wall again, mouth being seared by another’s touch, hot and burning as Atsumu moves at his own pace, grip on Tobio’s track jacket loosening as his fingers stray. One hand dips to Tobio’s exposed hip, digging into the skin hard enough to bruise, making Tobio let out a little wince, strained gasp swallowed by an invading tongue.

This is Atsumu’s opening gambit, his set of moves to bring Tobio to his knees. A heavy kiss that chars every inch of Tobio’s mouth, his thumb tracing the bobbing of Tobio’s adam's apple, an aphrodisia that could kill, bit into Tobio’s bottom lip. Check.

Tobio knows he has to make a move or else it’ll be checkmate already, so he uses his rook, traces a path up Atsumu’s spine, eventually finding his hair and letting his fingers intertwine with it, pulling sharply, eliciting a half-broken noise from the older boy. Something low and caught in his throat; a sign of a good move. Check.

That is how they play this game, swapping blow for blow, move for move, every little trace of their fingers and every short, fiery kiss, a calculated move to make the other accept defeat. Atsumu discards languid kisses for ones that drag out his name from Tobio’s lips, voice rough as he hands over another piece of his team, rooks and pawns and bishops piling up. Tobio hates how he is turning into putty in Atsumu’s hands, opting to dip his hands under his shirt, blunt nails loitering on skin that feels like it should be off limits. Atsumu’s stomach is well defined, sinews of muscles shifting under Tobio’s fingertips as they trail up, stealing another chess piece through the gasps Atsumu breathes into his mouth.

They eventually stop, left with aching jaws and swollen lips and a stalemate that makes Tobio’s stomach stir with annoyance, and lingering remnants of something sweet, something hot and burning.

Atsumu sighs, breathing heavily as his chest heaves up and down, eyes flickering up from Tobio’s lips to meet his gaze. That easy smirk is back as he adjusts his shorts, and Tobio's stomach does a flip. He absolutely despises that smirk and all the ways it can contort his insides.

“I don’t need yer pity,” Atsumu grits his teeth, “just be there next time so I can beat ya’.”

And then he turns on his heels and leaves Tobio alone in the equipment cupboard, gently touching his lips, now branded with promises old and new. Silently, he vows that he will crush Atsumu the next time he sees him, before grabbing his water bottle from where he’d abandoned it on the court and storming back to his bedroom. 

❧

The next morning, Tobio joins the others for breakfast before the coaches talk to them one last time and let them go. 

Unsurprisingly Atsumu is already there, recounting some ludicrous story about him and his brother being trapped out of their dorms in their underwear all night, swearing that it’s true, and annoyed as he is, Tobio cannot fight the scoff squishing against his cheeks until they burn. It spills out of him so very suddenly, and as he tries to cover his mouth, Atsumu stares at him, armed with a cheshire smile like the cat that got the cream. 

“What, ya’ don’t believe me?” He says, playfully scrunching his face up. 

Tobio shakes his head, “No, I do. The problem is I can picture it a little too well.”

“Imaginin’ me in nothing but my underwear, oh Tobio-kun, you’re obsessed.” Atsumu sing-songs, a smirk cutting across his face like a scythe, just as dangerous. The heaviness of his gaze makes Tobio shift, hot under the collar. 

He thinks of chapped lips and hot, demanding hands. Cruel words and sharp breaths, the hungry bite of pearl-teeth into his sensitive flesh. He’d thought about it all night, hadn’t been able to stop tossing and turning in his sheets like a madman. But he refuses to think about it now, not with the older boy’s arm pressing a hot line of heat against him. He refuses to be the meek little puppy Atsumu keeps expecting him to be. 

“You wish,” he murmurs, but it’s enough to make Atsumu pause. 

He stares at Tobio, bug-eyed and shocked, but Tobio does not shrink away under his gaze, placidly staring back until the older boy snorts, and then that snort snowballs into a hysterical sort of laughter, which is just baffling, because Tobio is sure he didn’t say anything that funny. Or even, slightly funny. 

Humour is not exactly his forte, as Hinata has informed him many, many times. 

“Jesus, Tobio-kun, I know I’m a dick but I didn’t expect you to be one in return,” Atsumu huffs out, visibly amused, eyes bright, his voice low and teasing, “I suppose you’re not a little push over after all.” 

Tobio pulls a face at that, but doesn’t say anything, and the conversation moves on. Still, every once in a while, he finds his eyes creeping back to Atsumu, only for the older boy to be looking back at him already. The monstrous urge to destroy comes upon him like a fever every time. He wants to take Atsumu into his hands and squeeze until he crumbles into nothingness, white-ivory dust of something once-great. 

Atsumu and him are built of exchanged promises and kisses meant to hurt, meant to tear each other apart. Atsumu and him are built to fight, to meet at nationals and play a rematch, so he holds onto all the pieces of the older setter that he has stolen, taking them all the way back to Miyagi as little memories. Little spurs of adrenaline. Little boosts for when he is training, incentives to work even harder—to see that smirk finally fall from Atsumu’s face.

Chapter Text

Karasuno makes it to nationals again despite the lost chance in spring, this time helmed by Ennoshita—a steady, sturdy barge, intent on wreaking havoc in foreign waters. However, armies that they have fought before meet them half-way, armed down to their teeth. Cannons and guns ablaze, billowing smoke into the dense atmosphere—ready for a fight.

It seems that promises made on the marred land are guaranteed to be kept, especially when the boy who makes them is a king with polished skills and a quick that he unsheathes as his perfected sword, made of steel and starlight. 

Miya Atsumu keeps his promise and defeats Kageyama Tobio, sinking his ship barely offshore. Then he does something that Tobio cannot make any sense out of—not that he has been thinking about what Miya Atsumu has always been likely to do. 

(Liar, a little voice in his head seems to sing, and unfortunately, to Tobio’s deep annoyance, it sounds like Hinata.)

Atsumu throws Tobio a life vest and pulls him out of the cold seas with a little jerk of his head as their hands meet under the net, indicating towards one of the empty hallways now that all his necessary gloating was out of the way. 

Now, standing in said hallway, Tobio watches the trail of sweat trickling down the side of Atsumu’s face, liquid gold highlighting reddened skin as laboured breathing wheezes from a worn out body, glowing with the remnants of victory.

“Ya played well, Tobio-kun.” 

A smile pulls at the corners of Atsumu’s lips, and Tobio instantly notices how different it is to his smirk. How gentle, how smooth, how warm; like silk and honey, like it was carved from marmoreal. Like it was made for a king, from a king. A treaty, a truce, an offering to the gods to unite them on the battlefield a million more times, but not right now. Not in this quiet moment, caught in between battles, in between quiet stadium halls as games go on somewhere else, somewhere less important than here.

It’s strange. He knows he should be more angry about this—about losing. A year ago he would have, but feeling rage after a game as good as that? It seems fruitless. It pisses him off that he can’t keep playing, and that Atsumu got to keep his promise, that Karasuno couldn’t prove him wrong this time round, but at the same time, Tobio savoured the game for what it was: exceptional. 

There’s not many setters that could play like that, like Atsumu, and definitely not many that wanted to play like that against Tobio. So strange as it is, most of Kageyama is subdued in his grieving of shattered hopes. 

“So did you,” he replies, sincere down to the marrow of his bones.

Atsumu grins, sharp and toothy, “I know.”

It takes everything within Tobio not to roll his eyes. 

“So, what now?” He stares at the ground, swallowing the loss in hopes of...

In hopes of what exactly? 

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know why he’s even here, talking to Miya like they are friends, like they know each other beyond the confines of the court, beyond the clashing of their kingdoms, beyond the sharing of saliva in a equipment cupboard in the heat of the moment—desperate lips locking together like swords mid-battle, sparking gold and silver in Tobio’s vision, as Atsumu became the first to hold him like that, even if it was a one time thing. 

“Winnin’ nationals obviously,” Atsumu snorts, leaning next to him against the wall, “After graduation...I’m joining the V-League. Got scouted by a team, they’re division one ‘n all.”

Tobio feels something electric run up his spine. 

Atsumu is going to the V-League. 

Miya fuckin’ Atsumu, the number one highschool setter, the boy who slashes through his ribs with his confidence and squeezes his heart with his challenges, who isn’t afraid to piss people off, isn’t afraid to make enemies, who is foul-mouthed and loud and an emperor with royal blood in his veins, saturated with his skill. His ego, moulded and welded into a weapon, a sword in one hand, and his dedication, his love for volleyball, sharpened into a club of equal destruction, in the other.

The V-League can’t handle him; even he can barely handle him.

“They’re not ready for you.” Tobio says before he can stop himself, and it comes out soft, but loud and clear in the still air between them. He sounds too sincere, too sweet—it's concerning. 

But it’s nice.

It’s nice to see the way Atsumu’s eyes widen with a little surprise; it's nice to trip him up every once in a while.

“What’s that s’posed to mean?” Atsumu manages to recover from the initial shock, eyebrows quirked in that comical way that only he can seem to pull.

A memory flashes before Tobio’s mind, frayed around the edges yet dripping in an expensive sheen, framed by something ornate and aureate. He can see the youth training camp, can feel the floor beneath his trainers, can taste the heaviness in the air, settling on his tongue. He can hear the mirth in Atsumu’s voice, the upwards curve of his mouth, teasing and denying Tobio of a straight answer: ‘Exactly what it sounds like’.

Yes, that was what he had said, and Tobio decided then and there that no other answer can suffice, the unmolded syllables on his tongue, unyielding in their chosen path.

He huffs, face serious as ever, voice level, “Exactly what it sounds like.”

It seems to trip Atsumu up and Tobio loves it; he loves watching the older boy’s brows knit and that petulant pout find its way onto his lips. Realisation and mirthful glee in one, pupils dancing with amusement. Before Tobio even knows what he’s doing, he’s smiling; he doesn’t even know what it looks like, whether he is even truly seizing Atsumu up, or if this is something a little gentler. Despite it all, his insides still burn with something untameable, yet another challenge crawling its way into the cocoon of a promise, ready to spill from his tongue.

“I’ll get you next time.” 

A challenge. An offer. A promise. 

All for Atsumu and their shared passion for volleyball.

Atsumu bristles, that godforsaken smirk tugging at lips that had once kissed Tobio so bruisingly that he felt the rush only volleyball could provide, tingling all over his skin. He feels it again when Atsumu speaks, rather drawls, head tilted to the side as he regards Tobio with a look he just can’t decipher.

“I’d love to see you try.” 

Then, Atsumu pushes his blond bangs back, letting out a breathless snort; he tilts his head back to stare at the ceiling like it holds all the answers to the universe, like it holds art beauteous enough to rival that on the walls of the Sistine Chapel, like this place is as sacred as that.

Maybe it is, for them, children of volleyball moulded into kings, so different yet so alike. Crowned or uncrowned, from east or west, quiet or loud, crow or fox. At their very core, they are setters. Atsumu is a setter. Much like a boy Tobio once knew, but smouldering with something vastly different, something Tobio cannot identify let alone voice. 

Sometimes Atsumu is a mirror, other times, he is a gilded statue carved with lines that are too intricate for Tobio to truly comprehend, joined together by a force that sears itself into the slabs of marble that make up his body. There is some mystifying quality within Miya Atsumu that draws Tobio in like a moth to a flame; something that screams with silence that only confirms how perfect Atsumu is as a setter. It’s dizzying, frankly.

Then Atsumu is looking at Tobio again, hazel eyes focusing in a manner that the younger boy could only describe as feral. The hoods of his lids are far too relaxed for this to be scrutiny, but that look—golden shimmering in a pool of honey—it is almost pensive in its regard of Tobio. Atsumu looks far too wistful, far too invested in locating whatever he is looking for amidst the features of Tobio’s face, locked away in the faintest freckles that are unevenly splattered across his skin.

Tobio sucks in a sharp breath, heart heavier in his chest. 

Regal is the world that brands itself on the tissue of Tobio’s brain, sinking into the nerves that command him. Regal. Atsumu looks regal, carrying a sort of dignity that can only be attributed to men of monarchy, raised with a contemplative wisdom that eludes the common man, and no, Tobio knows this is not all Atsumu is. In fact, he is aware of the immaturity, rowdiness and, often, unbearable hostility that seeps from the older setter. He has, after all, been on the receiving end. But all that pride, it is kingly in of itself—a refusal to conform. It makes Tobio yearn to know what made him so brazen, because Tobio has fallen twice in the last two years, once for his pride, and once for his fear of rejection.

Then came Miya Atsumu, who called him out to his face, and carried on with his life like nothing had happened.

Then came Miya Atsumu who promised to fight tooth and nail, the only setter to do so, and proceeded to sear those promises into Tobio’s mouth with his lips.

Then came Miya Atsumu who stares at Tobio like he is a puzzle he cannot solve, a foreign prince that has finally stumped him. It is almost fond, the way his head is tilted in the sunlight to regard Tobio in such a way. Or perhaps it’s nothing but wishful thinking. But that makes Tobio pause, because what the hell could he be wishing for?

Those thoughts are quickly pushed to the back of his mind because Atsumu is too close and Tobio can feel his warm breath against his skin and it’s causing a comforting chill to crackle across his sweat-soaked skin, and christ, christ, christ . 

The gold-cast memory of it returns: being pushed up against a wall and held there, mouth bruised by the force by which it was kissed, jaw slack and open in surprise. Anger and passion, a determination to win. Tobio feels something similar stirring low in his stomach, burning in place of the blood in his veins. 

All it takes is one more step; he could take that step. He wants to, especially after that game, just to let Atsumu know that he won’t be in the lead for long.

All it takes is one more step and Tobio presses a chaste kiss to Atsumu’s mouth. It’s softer than it should be, not filled with all the blistering adrenaline that caused Tobio to do such a thing, and the older boy doesn’t even move, which only serves to panic Tobio, because fuck, did he just do something utterly idiotic?

But when he tries to pull back, a rough hand captures him by the back of his neck, holding him in place. Atsumu kisses him slow and deep, their mouths crushed together, Tobio’s hands curled in his black jersey. It is lazy and unhurried, but undercut with that same demanding need to win that neither of them can ever seem to shake. 

Tobio can feel the prickling heat of embarrassment under the skin of his cheeks when he pulls away, and he is certain that his face is flushed crimson, so with averted eyes and much less conviction than he originally planned for, he repeats his promise, “I’ll be there next time. I’ll beat you.”

It’s an echo of passionate words spat out in an equipment cupboard, emphasised by that strong dialect Atsumu fashions, only a few months ago. Atsumu seems to realise this because his face relaxes into a lazy smile; Tobio calls it that even if it isn’t fully formed, because it simply isn’t sharp enough to be a smirk.

There’s still something ruminative in his eyes, colours softened by a musing and preoccupied palette. Everything about Atsumu is soft-edged in that moment, except for the sparks of gold in his brown eyes. Those are full of hunger. Desire. Drive. Everything Tobio can feel melting together in his chest, reflected back at him.

“You better be.” Atsumu sighs, running a hand through his matted hair, before turning up the corner of his mouth, “I’ll see ya’ soon, Tobio-kun.”

He says it like he can confirm that it will happen, as if that is his choice to make. And when he looks like that, glowing, otherworldly, outlined with the golden hues of victory, Tobio cannot do anything but believe him. 

So he chooses to follow the sound of his voice, all the way to the next stage of his career, blindly trudging down the path of kings with unwavering faith in holy promises born of brazen challenges that feel much warmer than they should.

Chapter Text

Atsumu clutches his duffle bag a little closer, staring up as sunlight refracts against windows, as his future shines before him, here, in the heart of Osaka. He takes a deep breath, stepping forth to meet his new team.

Something akin to nervousness prickles at his skin, which is ridiculous. He is Miya Atsumu, he never gets nervous.

Atsumu has always lived like the earth is his to take, each step weighted with self-importance both on and off court, drilled into himself by hard work that lets him puff up his chest and declare with pride, that he is deserving of all that he has and more. Stadium strobe-lights and chanting spectators are his limelight and screaming fans, all of which he is sure he was born for.

Volleyball, especially.

Atsumu is sure he was born to fight, to take flight as a bird of prey, cunning down to his claws as he creates stratagems with a flick of his wrists. He has seen it all his life, the way he moulds himself into battle, blazing with a thirst that simply cannot be quenched, a hunger for more and more and more and more. For a game that is never-ending, for gold that he can knock back like his first ever shot, burning down his throat—thrilling and stinging and exhilarating.

He gives his all, because volleyball is what he loves, what he lives and breathes. It is all he has let himself know, all he has let himself care about for a very long time, shared with Osamu by his side, like the life that has existed between them since the day they were born.

Atsumu was, of course, born first. He has a natural instinct to try to outdo Osamu at everything, the act of literally being alive was no exception to that hunger.

The gods carved him out of marble, and gold, and something that never learned to stop yearning. Like Eros, he is the brother who is made first, fleshed out with passion and desire, a form of love that wants and needs until the ends of the earth.

Both Eros and Atsumu were once new to the world, aflame with the fervour to see, the impatient ardor to travel and leave a mark everywhere they go. That hasn’t changed to this day; Atsumu is lust personified. He wants to feel every inch of the world, take her dancing deep into the night, heels clicking against marble floors under the starlit canvas of the sky. He wants to pierce chests with arrows and armour them with love, or at least his version of love: whimsical desire. A weapon that sharpens their strikes.

It was always going to be volleyball for him.

When he was a mere child, stumbling around looking for purpose, he found that whimsical desire—that lust, that love—in volleyball, and it became his shrine, his temple, and the reason he carries his quiver and bow.

Volleyball is made for him.

It is exhilarating, and quick, a hundred seconds sewn into one swift movement and Atsumu plays like a child, with wonder and wide eyes.

He is made for volleyball.

He fell in love with being a setter, lodging an arrow in his own heart by mistake, caught up in the whirlwind of the position. Of being the one who can stand on court, packaging his love like an onslaught of attacks, able to say ‘I’ll letcha score’ with unwavering confidence. It satisfies that insatiable hunger of his.

For Atsumu, love is the perfect set, with all ten fingers to support his hitters with; love is the arrow that he shoots straight into his teammates so they can have the strength to fight. To fly. To score. To win.

It is what carried him through elementary, then middle school, then to high school, to nationals three times, to the All Japan Youth Training camp, to the V-League. It is inherent to him, and he wouldn’t give it up for the world.

He is a setter who gives his all, and his strikers can only ever give him their best.

But if they don’t? What then?

Atsumu screws his face up in contempt and tosses them away.

The argument is an old one: Atsumu gives 110% and he will not settle for any less in return. His standards are high. Ridiculously high according to some weaklings that only know how to gripe instead of knucklin’ down and getting their shit together. He doesn’t want to hear it: if you have a spot on the team you play like you’re playing for your life, or you get off the court. Simple.

He’s said those very words to his own brother, let alone lazy assholes that grind on his very last nerve.

The thought of his brother stills Atsumu’s hand where it is trying to undo his jacket zip. The rest of the team is engaged in conversations of their own, fitting in to each other like a well oiled machine, and for the first time in a very long time, his side feels cold without the presence of Osamu.

Atsumu doesn’t want to think about his twin, but he’s not something that can be ignored, and believe him, he’s really fucking tried.

It is a fact of life that Eros doesn’t want to play with broken toys that cannot give back the love that he gifts them. He cannot grow this way, forever remaining a child with too many demands. Humans interest him, and he will dabble in their affairs, but they do not meet his standards. He needs another monster; he needs to be surrounded by gods like himself.

But Eros has Anteros. His anchor; his equal. And all is right in the world.

Miya Osamu was born second, by mere minutes, but still second. He was brought into the world at the decision of the gods, who sensed that one Miya would not be enough. They must have foreseen the emptiness around Atsumu if Osamu wasn’t there. They must have known how incomplete Atsumu would have been without him.

(Though Atsumu would much sooner shave off all his precious hair and eat it, than admit anything of the sort).

They must have wanted to prevent it.

So in comes Miya Osamu, a present identical to its recipient, wrapped in ribbons and decorative paper; snarky remarks and bored looks.

Atsumu knows Osamu has always been aware of his love for volleyball, and being young, he played along, allowing his brother to take one of his golden arrows and stab it into his skin, puncturing layers of things Osamu had yet to discover about himself, so he bled gold onto a court they both stood on.

Anteros always protects Eros in subtle ways, he may be younger but he is the only one who can run as far as his brother. He is the only one who dares to chase after him, to overtake him at points. He is the only one who will spike a set they haven’t even practiced and score off it like it was no big deal. He’ll complain, always and without fail, but it doesn’t change the fact that he is the only one who can reciprocate the love that Atsumu launches with every arrow, with every set, and receive, and strike.

Atsumu hates admitting it, but it is a silent undercurrent that runs between them. No matter how harsh and blunt and foul he can be, and no matter how much of a dick Osamu can be in return, Atsumu will always love him, and will always be glad that they have each other on this shared path of life.

Or so he thought.

Their path splintered unexpectedly in their final year, branching off into what seems like two different universes, and Atsumu still feels like the earth is disappearing beneath his feet. He is free falling, ready to meet a messy end against the pavement because nothing will hurt more than the way his heart ached as it shattered upon hearing that his brother was quitting volleyball.

The goddamn coward. Quitin’ something they were meant for just ‘cause he knew he would never be as good as Atsumu. Fucking bastard.

Atsumu felt so many things at once that day that picking them apart, even with the 20/20 super vision of hindsight, is arduous.

There was fury, red hot and blinding, taking over until his body was on autopilot, tongue spitting out insults to cover up the growing void within his chest. He just didn’t understand and he began to regress. The clock of his body ticked backwards at rapid speeds, as vicious slander took the place of every arrow he so lovingly placed into his brother.

Because how can he leave? How dare he even think of it? What happened to Eros and Anteros? What happened to reciprocating love?

The gods must have shared a heavy sigh: this was the one thing they wished to avoid. But fuck them, because if they truly wanted Atsumu to never be alone, they wouldn’t have created such a big fucking flaw in the story. Eros caved in on himself, is still caving in on himself to some extent, and all that growth has disappeared.

(Atsumu bows to the team and introduces himself, tongue slipping when he automatically moves to introduce Osamu too, barely holding himself back. It leaves him shaky as they start warming up, and he knows he needs to focus, but can’t take it, he just can’t.)

His bravado had shaken that day, mask slipping until he could see the vulnerability he refused to share, pushing it down further as he continued to antagonise so he didn’t have to word the sickly feeling crawling up his throat. The fear of being alone sinking into his bones.

Osamu was cut from the same stubborn cloth as him, however, and he never let up.

He said a lot that afternoon in the gym, bunching up his fists as stared down his twin, red-faced with the heat of an argument, and Atsumu heard it all. It’d be hard not to when it’s shouted right into your fucking face.

He left that ‘conversation’ knowing two things for certain: Osamu loves volleyball, but just not like his twin. He doesn’t find a way to nurture this connection, even if Atsumu was the one who created it, which makes him an ungrateful bastard in his eyes. 

But maybe he’s right. Maybe it is sometimes better to let love die, before it gives way to destructive feelings that will destroy both brothers, taking them down in flames of blame and selfishness.

Maybe he was right, but Atsumu didn’t want to hear it then, and he certainly still doesn’t want to hear it now, as he tries to quell the nervous energy crackling down his spine, hands trying to launch a perfect set.

A whole summer has passed since Osamu’s earth-shattering revelation, and they’ve had the conversation about a million times but it always leads to them talking with fists and arguments so they can each attempt to punch the information into each other’s thick skull.

That seems to work, in a fragile sense.

Competition still burns in their veins and the promise of being the happier twin at their deathbeds is bitter and tastes metallic on Atsumu’s tongue. But he’s not one to go back on his word, and he’s not one to lose either. Atsumu will keep going, will force away the void he feels without Osamu because he refuses to lose to him.

It is reassuring, that even though their paths are different now, they are still running towards the same finishing line, that they are still racing each other. After all, Osamu will always be the only one who can keep up with him. So Atsumu will meet him at the end with gold around his neck and a lifetime of wins; he will see his brother lose and feel good about it.

That is what they decide is enough of a reconciliation. Yet a part of Atsumu is not satisfied; it is soothing, but he still feels different, more vulnerable, almost.

There is still hope in him, however. A small flicker that burns at the sight of the MSBY Black Jackals, his first adult team. Here he is, straight outta high school, ready to play with those who can match his passion, perhaps in a way that even Osamu couldn’t.

His high hopes exist only to be crushed, however, it seems.

Two weeks of practice pass, and the team is great, of course they are, they’re division one for god’s sake. Meian is a fair captain, and Inunaki is someone Atsumu can see himself being friends with. Hell, Barnes is gentle despite his giant stature and if no one on this team will be able to stand Atsumu, he knows he’ll have him at least.

And yet, Atsumu can feel the emptiness in the air. He can feel the aggravation itching under his skin after a little while, like a friction that cannot be ignored. It doesn’t affect his playing at first, he never lets anything do that, but god fucking damn it, he’s human, and he’s tired, and he’s lonely.

He misses Suna’s snide comments and Aran’s look of pure exasperation at everything he does. He misses Kita’s well spoken speeches, misses the ways he scolds Ginjima for following in Atsumu’s footsteps, misses Omimi’s mild-mannered personality that betrays his outward intimidation, misses Akagi shouting encouragement during matches. Misses being captain, misses having friends, misses the feeling of being understood, no questions asked, because despite it all, Atsumu isn't blind enough to not know how difficult he is to get along with.

But most of all, he misses Osamu.

He misses his snarky remarks and stupid insults. He misses being able to know there’s someone there for him to always count on, willingly or unwillingly. He misses their head on competition, not whatever this new competition is, stretched out over decades that he simply isn’t patient enough for.

That practice session doesn't go too well, and Atsumu cannot swallow down the searing disappointment he feels at himself as he watches the rest of the team head off, leaving him to practice some more as he tends to do.

Even this is lonely. Atsumu has lived this before, back in middle school, when he was trying to outdo Osamu to take his place as setter. He remembers the stinging of his palms, the aching of his thighs, the burning of his lungs. He feels it all tenfold, amplified by the dull ache in his chest. He feels so disconnected from everything and everyone; it has never bothered him before, but things have been hitting him a little differently since he’s been left alone on this path.

He has been waiting to see some similar passion from his teammates. They love volleyball, of course they do. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t bother with playing anymore. But their love is different from Atsumu's love. It almost pains him to hear how much this is merely a job to some of them, how much they want to clock out and go home. Like home doesn’t exist in the gym, where trainers squeak against floors, and the slam of flesh against balls echoes in the room.

He is a god, a monster, left amongst humans who do not want quite as viciously as he does, and it leaves him missing all that he had before.

Atsumu’s chest heaves as he leans his head against the cool, gym wall, sweat trickling down his temple as he tries to focus his breathing. In that moment, he makes a decision, and buries away a little bit of pride to call his brother in a time of need.

The phone only rings for a little while before the sound of an answering click blesses Atsumu’s ear.

“Sup ‘Tsumu, didn’t expect to hear from ya’ til the weekend.”

Atsumu lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding, “What, I can’t call up my brother whenever?”

“You can, but ya’ don’t.”

“Hey, what’s that supposed to—”

“Oh quit bein’ a drama queen ‘n tell me what’s got yer panties in a twist.”

Atsumu tenses. How did Osamu even come to that conclusion? It’s shit like that—the unspoken, unwavering care his brother shows—that makes his chest ache, as pretence splinters away and his shoulders sag with all the stress he carried through the last few practice sessions.

“I dunno what I’m fuckin’ doin’ anymore ‘Samu.” His voice shakes and it’s fucking pathetic. He’s eighteen years old, hell, he’ll be nineteen soon enough: he shouldn’t be sitting here wallowing in his own self pity. But his body doesn’t seem to share that sentiment, filled with uncomfortable jittering that will not subside, “This team...the whole V-League...It’s just weird not havin’ ya’ here.”

There he said it, and now he can’t take it back.

“Volleyball is still volleyball though, ain’t it?” Osamu's voice is calm, steady, and Atsumu can hear the previous hustle in the background die down, as if he has found a quiet space to talk.

“Yeah but I ain’t feelin’ like I’m at my best.” Atsumu sighs, nails digging into the palm of his free hand, “I feel like shit ain’t the same and I dunno what to do to fix it all.”

Atsumu feels like something is lodged in his throat, a burning, bitter truth that he doesn’t want to spit out, that he is too prideful to speak into the air. And yet his tongue is loosened from the tiredness ebbing in the back of his head, so it slips out, a low whisper that sounds too much like a much younger Atsumu, confused as to why his brother didn’t want to play with him during lunch that one time in elementary.

“Why’d ya’ have to stop playin’ ‘Samu?”

There’s so much left unsaid. But from the silence that follows, it feels as though Osamu is processing it all, even the quiet admissions crackling in the static of the call, words that confirm how much Atsumu has depended on having his twin around all his life.

When Osamu finally talks, his voice is hushed and as soft as he can get it, like the many nights they built forts in their room and stayed up late watching movies, trying not to wake their Ma and get into a whole world of trouble.

“Tsumu, you love volleyball, don’t ya?”

Atsumu grunts out the affirmative.

“You look so happy when ya’ play, like some child let loose. It’s real ridiculous to see in person by the way.” He chuckles lightly, “But that’s the thing, ain’t it? You feel alive, and ya look it too. It’s always meant more to you than to me. And look, I didn’t quit ‘cause I hated it or anythin’. It just wasn’t it for me, not the way it is for you.”

Atsumu frowns, “What’s me lovin’ volleyball got to do with ya quitting?”

“Wouldja lemme get to that part or are ya gonna keep interrupting dumbass?”

Normally, Atsumu would’ve had a million things to say in retaliation but he’s weary. Brought low by the heavy weight of nothingness that had been slowly crushing him. The days like weeks and the weeks like months, years, centuries. Every moment longer than the last. 

Osamu takes a moment, perhaps gathering his thoughts, and Atsumu can’t help the nerves he feels, “Look. I told you I wanted to go into food and catering, and I do. That’s…’Tsumu, y’know when ya’ stole that freak quick for the first time?”

How could he ever forget? The electricity crackling in the air, the look of shock on Karasuno’s faces, the broiling feeling of victory in his chest. The frown on Tobio’s lips, and the feral glow of challenge in his eyes. Atsumu felt like he was on top of the world in that split-second, all those years ago.

“‘Course I do.”

“That was cool to you, wasn’t it? Like ya’ knew volleyball was the only thing that could make ya’ feel like that?”

“Yeah, I’ve always known that.”

“See, I feel that when I cook. When Ma’ taught me how to make onigiri for the first time...that’s like when you stole Tobio-kun’s quick. When she first let me watch her in the kitchen, that’s like when you saw a setter for the first time.” Osamu sighs, “Do ya’ get what I’m sayin’?”

Atsumu swallows, nodding to himself in the silence of the empty gym, “Yeah. I get it. Food, cookin’, all that is, to you, what volleyball is to me.”

“And that’s why I had to stop playin’, kay?”

“Okay.” Atsumu bites down on his lip, “Ya’ only did what’s best for ya’. M’proud...dipshit.”

Osamu laughs, “You were doin’ so well, and there ya’ go and ruin it.”

They go quiet again, and Atsumu can tell Osamu is thinking hard. He wants to say something, but he doesn’t know what. It scares him a little, how well Osamu knows him. How he’s the only one who does. How, for all his charm, no one would’ve ever been his friend without Osamu by his side. They’ve always been a package deal and Atsumu is terrified of being the only thing on the shelf now. 

“Tsumu, why don’t you feel like yer at yer best?”

That’s the million yen question, isn’t it?

“To be honest, I don’t know, ‘Samu.” Atsumu runs a hand through his hair, staring out at the court before him, and the sun dipping down into the horizon, past window glass, “Everythin’ feels different, and in a permanent sorta way. I dunno, maybe I miss how shit was in highschool, but this is my dream, so why do I feel so fuckin’ out of place?”

Osamu hums, “Tell me, ‘Tsumu, what don’t we need?”

Atsumu pinches his brows in thought, “Toner?”

“No piss-head, ya’ really do need toner. What we don't need though, is memories.” Atsumu perks up at that, “Ya’ loved that motto, hell, when you were captain you’d yell it at the first years all the time.”

“They needed to learn!” Atsumu defends.

“Yeah, well it seems now you need to learn. Volleyball ain’t about what ya’ had, it’s about what ya’ have now, and what yer gonna do with it. You taught me that. So how can you sit there and wallow about highschool when there’s a whole new world to conquer?”

Atsumu feels something akin to thrill buzz in his veins, lifting spirits he didn’t know were down, “Fuck. I hate it when yer right.”

“Yeah, yeah. Must be disappointed often then.”

Atsumu snorts, “Don’t get too big for yer boots now, ‘Samu.”

“Oh, says you, pig-head.”

The twins laugh in a way they haven’t for a little while, and Atsumu’s chest feels so much lighter. This is one thing he can never lose, no matter where they go, he’ll always be Osamu’s brother.

“Oh, and ‘Tsumu?” Osamu says, just before they hang up.

“Yeah?”

“I know ya’ feel like yer team don’t love volleyball the way you do, but just wait it out, m’sure there’s other volleyball maniacs out there waitin’ to break into the V-League.” He pauses, “I mean, Kita-san always said there were plenty of monsters out there other than just us.”

Atsumu thinks briefly, of Karasuno’s freak duo, of Hinata Shouyou, and Kageyama Tobio—monsters, far past the making stage.

His mouth splits into a grin, “Well, Kita-san’s never been wrong before.”

“Now get yer shit together so I can beat ya’ and brag about how much better my life’s been when we’re eighty.”

“You’ll regret this confidence in due time,” Atsumu promises, “Talk to ya’ soon, ‘Samu.”

“Not too soon hopefully.” Osamu jokes, before hanging up the phone on Atsumu’s indignant squawking.

Some things never change it seems.

And as Atsumu gathers his things, ready to go home, he feels more alive, less burdened, a smile creeping onto his face, because a new, glinting arrow has been removed from his quiver. Silver and made specially for Anteros, dug into his back from across cities. A promise that despite the different paths they are taking, Atsumu will love him, always. Pride bubbling in him at the thought of Osamu spreading his wings to the thing that he truly loves.

It is a reminder that Osamu has always helped his brother grow, to help him understand himself and the world, to stop him from being alone.

Maybe it is the best thing the gods could have ever done for Eros. Giving him Anteros was their greatest mercy on cupid and his obscenely large ego. Atsumu stares up at the night sky, at the stars twinkling up about as he jogs home, thanking the heavens for giving him someone that would always look out for him. Someone who would love him no matter what.

Someone that would ensure his love is always reciprocated, so they can both grow—together, even when they’re apart.

Not that he would ever admit it in words. There are some things even he won’t say out loud, some things Osamu doesn’t need to hear.

❧

There is a shift in Atsumu after that day.

He apologises to the team for how off he’d been for the last few practices, and Meian just smacks him on the back and tells him shit like that happens. The others just laugh, good-naturedly, and Atsumu is glad he hasn’t messed this up so soon.

Slowly, over the year, he is built up again, confident and sharp and cunning. Every bit the setter he was before and more.

That is when Koutarou Bokuto joins the Jackals, and Atsumu has his first taste of playing with a monster in the V-League. It is hair-raising, this stirring sensation, twisting and snapping against his nerve-endings like a whip, formed of pure electric adrenaline.

And when Bokuto scores off his set? Jesus Christ.

Atsumu feels like everything inside him has been remade; he feels like he is born again, here, in the crucible of volleyball, overflowing with the energy of a fellow monster. He could get very used to this; he could get very used to having other monsters, gods, dancing at his fingertips.

His solo, extended practice is not so solo anymore, as Bokuto sticks around, demanding more sets to spike, and Atsumu is more than happy to give, so long as Kou doesn’t enter his little slump. Props to him, however, because Atsumu hasn’t had to deal with that. Seems like Bokuto is sticking to his promise.

Atsumu feels like this team can be family, just like Inarizaki, just like Osamu, and he is more than willing to give them all the love they need.

He feels content after a long time.

That contentment rapidly shifts gears into anticipation, however, when he comes across a post on the Schweiden Adler’s social media account, announcing their newest team member. And there he is, staring back at Atsumu with those bright blue eyes, not any less duller from behind a phone screen.

Kageyama fuckin’ Tobio.

Atsumu remembers heated promises and sensational matches that felt like the clashing of kingdoms. He remembers a boy-king, who rapidly shed away into a warrior. He remembers a few, odd kisses, born of competition and lust, of something neither of them could ever name.

All of it births an excitement in his chest that he hasn’t felt since the day he watched Tobio’s retreating back, leaving that hallway back at nationals, taking his first step onto the path of kings. 

Atsumu has always known that he will see Tobio again, across the net, forever ready to fulfil their promises. The thought that it may happen soon, fills him with giddy impatience to feel gold burning in his lungs as he watches a monster at work once more.

Chapter Text

Things are different after high school.

Tobio, once a hatchling that could not carry his own body, takes flight. A crow with spread wings soaring down the path of kings, carved out by monarchs before him, and lined with promises he holds close to his chest.

He leaves his nest—leaves Karasuno—a different man than before. No longer a child trying to act bigger than he was, trying to conceal mangled wings—shattered trust and bruised confidence. 

Karasuno took him under their care, sheltered him from the storm, let him sit in embrace of the rising sun as aurelian light shone over closing wounds, forming the crown of a boy who is loved and wanted, cut from scrap metal as he took his throne in the trash heap from which they rose.

Tobio is not captain material. Not after middle school. 

Even then, it was perhaps not such a good idea. He cannot lead a group; his tongue simply isn’t silver enough. He cannot soothe with words and lead like Daichi, or Ennoshita, or Yamaguchi, or Oikawa, or even Atsumu. But he knows volleyball, which is why he was vice captain in his final year.

He’s grateful for the chance to try again. To try to fix what went wrong the first time.

Their flock grew in the years before, taking in chicks with growing passion. Tobio’s never been good with words, but the last three years at Karasuno have given him much time to improve. He ends up having juniors that look up to him, that aren’t intimidated by his scowl, that are a team he can depend on.

Though Karasuno ends up being so much more than a team.

In the end, their little legion never does win nationals. They fought hard: a murder of crows with knife-edged beaks and cuspidate claws, a wide array of combinations and quicks, strategies they cooked up, sitting cross-legged on the wooden floor of their gym, as Coach Ukai scribbled on his whiteboard, utilising them all to their best potential.

Tobio finds that never winning nationals is a complicated feeling. Winning is no longer the black and white beast that possessed him back in middle school.

It is, admittedly, disappointing that he couldn’t carry his team to the very end, to the top of the platform, to the mountains where they could watch the sun set on their time at Karasuno with gold around their necks.

But they played their best to the very end.

They played volleyball, and they played well.

They had each other’s backs, they understood each other, on and off the court. They understood him .

Karasuno was no mere team to Tobio. Hinata was his first real friend, hell, his best friend even.

(Even if he won’t ever say those words out loud).

Yamaguchi was a great captain, and a greater partner, greater friend. He, too, grew under Karasuno’s shelter. Tsukki was an ass, always has been, and still is, but Tobio would not trade him for anyone else. His jibes are entertaining, and Tobio is not above a little verbal sparring, paired with underlying care, packaged in indifferent taunts. Yachi is an angel. She became a great manager, training up her own replacements, and never hesitating to tutor Tobio and Hinata whenever they stumbled with academics.

(Which was…a lot ).

Tobio will always cherish their time together. He will never forget winter evenings after practice, noses and cheeks dusted pink despite their scarves and coats, munching on hot curry buns as the five of them headed home, splitting off one by one. 

He will always hold onto the strong bonds they formed, becoming friends that are inseparable, friends that are the family Tobio has never truly experienced, before them, that is.

Now, even as they scatter off down their own paths—Hinata going further than others, to foreign shores to better himself, to reach new heights—Tobio knows the love between them all is the one thing life outside of high school will not change.

The V-League, however, is one change he welcomes.

There are a few teams with openings, but eighteen-year-old Kageyama Tobio sees the Schweiden Adlers and feels as though he is a child once more, sat by his grandfather’s side, transfixed on the telly as they make a ruckus over every play.

It only makes sense to pick them.

And once he joins them, he observes more changes.

Ushijima Wakatoshi is one of them.

He is every bit the stoic, quiet boy he was in high school, though now much more of a man, shedding away the complex that brought him to look down on Tobio back in the day. Perched over the court as though it is his domain, Ushijima is a great eagle, honing skills and power that Tobio recognises, and plays that he must have forged upon entry to this new world. His spikes are devastatingly mighty, born of a new swing that not only increases his power but shrouds how, exactly, he will spike. 

It is strange; before, Ushijima was a pillar of maintaining a classic technique where Karasuno tore themselves apart to grow, now, he too sets his greatest strength—the snap of his old strike—alight in favour of change that betters him on the whole.

Hoshiumi, is less so a surprise, still as loud and rowdy as ever on the surface, and a terrifying source of power underneath it all. He flies, and the air is his domain, performing plays other players could only dream of. A true bird of prey.

The other Adlers are no disappointment either.

Their captain, Hirugami, looks after the team, even Hoshiumi who takes every opportunity to be as difficult as possible. Heiwajima and Sokolov are good at what they do, and Tobio soon learns how to fit into their team, how to play to all their strengths.

But it is Romero who is the final piece to Tobio forming a new family.

He is a star walking amongst them, and Tobio is a little awe struck, floored every time he sees him play. His veins burn with excitement, because this is volleyball: spikes that make the earth beneath them shake, cunning cultivated from across the globe, a team forged of skills that are unrivalled, at his very fingertips to deploy as he sees fit.

Using them as his soldiers, is thrilling; it births his love for volleyball all over again, as bridges of trust are built between them and him with every time Romero praises him, ruffling his hair, every time Hirugami pats his shoulder, declaring ‘good play’, every time Hoshiumi jumps on his back in the changing rooms, every time Ushijima wordlessly communicates with him, figuring out his every thought so effortlessly.

The Adlers aren’t Karasuno, but Tobio didn’t ever ask them to be; he doesn’t need that from them.

What he gets is another family, assembled on the court, in the changing rooms, in their accommodation. A family that he trusts, that trusts him back, forging weapons Tobio can use in the heat of battle.

Battle that arrives soon enough.

And it is only fitting that Tobio’s first brawl is with a boy who, too, has changed since highschool.

Miya Atsumu stands across the net, that ever-present smirk plastered on his lips as he stares at Tobio like he has been waiting. And Tobio spreads his wings, stepping onto a glorious court, flaming with the power of monsters situated on both sides of the divide, meeting Atsumu’s gaze head on, because he, too, has been waiting.

Tobio has been doing more than merely waiting, actually. 

He has been scaling his way out of the trash heap where Karasuno began, has been shedding a dented metal crown and torn cape for gold and velvet, has been in pursuit of Atsumu’s silvery voice, his promises forming a path that Tobio has now walked—finally ready to fight again.

Atsumu has a one year advantage, and Tobio can see it throughout their game. It is embedded in his very being, confidence oozing from his every strategy, muscles acclimatised to his plays, to this domain that he has worked to conquer.

But Tobio is not afraid.

The court is his home, no matter where he goes. He may not yet be the King in the eyes of the V-League, but royalty is etched into his very being, and as long as he has that passion, that deep-rooted love for volleyball that flares in his chest, Tobio is ready to climb mountains once more to claim a throne that Atsumu seems to inhabit.

Atsumu and his Jackals bare their fangs, poised to protect their territory, but Tobio and his Adlers are unfazed, playing to a victory as the crow flies.

They are, after all, birds of a feather.

The match ends, as all matches do, but Tobio’s pulse doesn’t cease its thundering as he watches from the precipice, taking in his first win in the league. Fulfilling the promise he made two years ago.

He sits himself down on a bench, wiping away sweat as he commits the match to memory, every dive and slash and scratch. Every save and set and spike. He sits and he commits everything Atsumu-related, to memory, a habit formed from watching V-League matches during his third-year that Tobio simply cannot shake off.

Tobio memorises the flick of his wrists, the spread of his lithe fingers in a set, the strain of his thighs as he bends himself in half, ever the selfless setter, the bronze enkindled in his eyes as he serves, the sweep of his hair—styled differently now, he can’t help but note—as he wipes away glistening lines of sweat that paint his body sheen, the curve of his lips as their hands meet under the next and his eyes zero in on Tobio, flickering with amusement and something Tobio just can’t name.

“So then, you finally showed up, eh?”

Tobio is disturbed from his thoughts, quelling the shiver he feels at the familiarity of that smooth, Kansai dialect, of how he can dissect the tones of Atsumu’s voice even over a year after hearing it in real life, rather than the static of radios and tv shows.

“Yeah,” Tobio looks up, taking in the sight of the older setter under stadium lights, “I told you I’d beat you.”

Atsumu smirks, eyes lidded and lazy, as he drops his head into a nod, before sinking onto the bench beside Tobio.

“Yer gettin’ better at keepin’ promises,” He says, their legs touching, forming a line of heat Tobio is mildly distracted by. 

Or he would be, if it weren't for that look in Atsumu’s eyes. The one Tobio has seen before, back in that hallway at nationals, calm yet far from relaxed. It is as though he is always searching, dismantling pieces of Tobio under his stare, trying to analyse the parts of him that are unspoken in all their conversations, few and far between as they may be. He doesn’t look calculating, not in the way he does on court. No, rather, Atsumu looks curious. Speculative, almost.

Tobio always feels bare when Atsumu stares at him like that, like he is something he simply cannot figure out. The skin of his cheeks prickle with warmth, and Tobio has to look away.

“They would be lousy promises if I didn’t keep them.” He says plainly.

In turn, Atsumu knocks their knees together. It is a familiar gesture from a boy—a man—that Tobio is not all that familiar with.

But then again, they are cut from the same stately silk, far more alike than different in ways they probably have yet to uncover. There has always been an underlying sense of understanding between them, hidden underneath ego and hostility, which, once removed, gives way to bold presumption and tentative sociability. 

Theirs is a strange rapport, built of challenges and promises, of conversations that take place months apart, yet never fail to strike Tobio like he is a wick awaiting fire.

“Don’t get too big for yer boots,” Atsumu warns, “This here’s just one game. I plan on wiping the floor with you next time.”

He arches a playful eyebrow and purses his lips, giving Tobio a once over that makes him burn, chest tight with anticipation, with another challenge, another promise. Atsumu could give him a hundred next times and Tobio would always feel this way: blistering with adrenaline, heart clattering against his ribs, utterly bound to his voice, to his every step.

It seems the pair of them will always be heading towards the same place, waiting for the other to show up for a promised showdown.

(Faintly, he thinks of Hinata, his fated opponent and greatest teammate, on the other side of the globe, carving his own path. He thinks of Oikawa who is still a back walking away, far from Tobio’s reach).

Tobio thrives off the idea that a monster like Atsumu, a king and an emperor, as imperial in his plays and resplendent in his showmanship as the day they first collided, will always be on the other side of the net. A setter that will always go toe to toe with him; Tobio hasn’t got another one of those, not other than Atsumu. Oikawa has always been too many steps ahead. 

He huffs out a breath, tossing his head back so it rests against the cool wall, “I’d like to see that.”

And really, he would. He’d like to fight Atsumu a million times more, setting this new domain on fire like that of the courts at nationals. Together, in this moment, sat side by side on a bench in a stadium post-battle, the two setters sign a new war-time declaration, weaved by challenges and promises not so different from those they made in high school, though they hold more of a bearing somehow.

Atsumu looks at him over his shoulder, solemnity strewn over his features, disturbed only by the blaze of brightness in his eyes.

He’s insatiable, terrifying, and christ does Tobio love it.

“Yeah,” Atsumu says, voice subdued, a little smirk playing at his lips, “You will. I promise.”

Tobio knows they are at war once more, standing on the same battlefield after years, and yet, when he listens to Atsumu talk, animated and lively as ever, he sees something that was barely forming in their high school years, grow larger. He sees a truce bind around them for every moment they do not step into the court, solidifying into permanence with every word they exchange.

Tobio must admit, he doesn’t hate the idea of knowing Atsumu past the clashing of their kingdoms.

The chance at which comes surprisingly easily.

“So, how’re you findin’ the V-League? It ain’t spooked ya’ has it?” 

Tobio frowns, tilting his head.

Maybe if he hadn’t been to Karasuno it would have. Maybe if he hadn’t been to Karasuno he wouldn’t have made it this far at all.

“Not really,” he says, shaking his head. He pauses, searching for the words, “My team is strong. I enjoy playing with them. And the rest of the teams in the league are powerful and amazing. Playing against them is…it’s just— It’s everything I’ve ever wanted, y’know?”

(He thinks, very briefly, of his grandfather. The whirring of hospital machinery and that antiseptic smell that lingered everywhere. The muffled static of the telly showing an Adlers match.

Himself, small and excited and unaware of the severity of everything going on around him, “I’m gonna play for them one day!”

His grandfather, soft and weary, but never anything less than sincere: “I’m know you will, Tobio-kun.”)

Atsumu is smiling, and something in Tobio’s chest wrenches so hard that it resonates in every bone. The older setter ducks his head, bronze skin dusted pink with mirth, planes of his face highlighted gold under the stadium lights.

“I get ya’.” 

When he meets Tobio’s gaze again, it is with something intensely sincere, something tinged in the hues of understanding, full of perception that only children of volleyball can understand, now grown into its new heralds, pumping fresh blue-blood into its veins.  

“Playin’ with guys like that, and against opponents like you…it’s what makes volleyball so fun.”

And isn’t he right? Tobio’s love for volleyball grows with every match, and he can see it now, reflected in Atsumu.

“Kageyama!! Are you coming or what?” Hoshiumi yells from the wing of the court, half-shrouded in shadows, disturbing the peace.

Atsumu chuckles lightly, “Looks like Kourai-kun wants ya’ to hurry up.”

Tobio nods, finding it hard to move, to get up, as though it would require fighting the special gravity they had created around themselves. Ten times heavier than everywhere else.

Giving him a little nudge to the rib, Atsumu winks, “Go on then, Tobio-kun, wouldn’t wanna keep that gremlin waitin’.”

To that, Tobio huffs out a laugh, shuffling onto his feet, “Good game, Miya-san. I’ll see you soon.”

❧

Soon turns out to be an hour and a half later, when the Adlers and the Jackals run into each other in an izakaya, mid-drinks. Tobio watches the teams easily flit together, long years of camaraderie and acquaintance having them split up into little groups. He finds himself sticking with Ushijima and Romero, quietly enjoying his tsukune and listening to the soft drone of conversation.

“Well, well, well. What are you doin’ here, Tobio-kun?”

Tobio does not need to look up to recognise that ludic voice, all too aware that it belongs to none other than Miya Atsumu. He leans back against the wood-accented wall and flicks his eyes up from his plate to find the man in question grinning down at him. 

In low, amber lighting, there is nothing deadly about Atsumu. He is not predacious like he is on the court, not a wolfish, rapacious hunter, but soft around the edges. Mellow, except from the sharp corners of his smile and the black dress shirt that cut his figure very nicely. Tobio supposes he has never actually seen Atsumu outside of volleyball, not really. Their time at the All Japan Youth Camp barely counted as off the court. 

He raises a brow, “I’m celebrating a win, Miya-san.”

Of course, this makes Atsumu chuckle, low and soft, “Blunt as ever, eh? ‘Spose that means I’m here drinkin’ to a devastating loss," he says easily, lowering himself onto the tatami next to him. 

“I wouldn’t call it devastating ; we did go for all five sets.”

“Yer right, we’re amazing, y’all barely won, next time we’ll crush ya.” The way he says it is warm though, the heat settling around Tobio like sunshine on a hot day. Atsumu leans his head on one hand, looking up at him, “What’cha drinkin’?” 

Tobio looks at his empty glass from when they first got here. 

“Nothing, at the moment.”

The older man grins in that lop-sided, sleazy way that has Tobio’s palms itching and says, “Well then yer not really celebrating are ya’?” He gets them a beer each on him and when Tobio protests, he simply says, “I ain’t doing this outta the kindness of my heart or anythin’. Next time when I win, which I will, you’ll owe me, so drink up Tobio-kun.”

Snorting at the sheer, annoying confidence Atsumu possessed, Tobio does just that. 

They spend the better part of the evening huddled together in the corner, catching up. Tobio asks about Osamu, surprised to hear he’s working on opening his own restaurant, watching the fondness bloom on Atsumu’s face so quickly when his brother is brought up. In turn, Atsumu asks about his last year of high school, about Hinata’s sudden decision to go to Brazil, about Karasuno’s last nationals and his adjustment into the Adlers. 

“I watched yer last game, y’know,” he says casually, biting down on the drumsticks the two of them are sharing. “At nationals, that is. You were real good. Total monster compared to the first time I saw ya’.” 

“You were there?” 

Atsumu nods, “Yeah, I came to watch Inarizaki, being ex-captain and all. They lost too but hey, what can you do.”

That is when Hoshiumi joins them, and the conversation is derailed. Tobio finds himself relaxing, snorting at jokes and each of their rowdy personalities, sipping slowly on his cool drink. His eyes keep finding their way back to Atsumu, however, an annoying, age-old habit from high school it seems he cannot shake. 

Atsumu sits there under muted, tawny lights, taller and broader than high school, animated as ever as he recounts some story or another, his voice lower than it used to be. Still rough around the edges, accent thick and raspy. Tobio takes a long moment to stare. To really let all the differences in Atsumu’s appearance sink in, etch themselves into his memory, perhaps subconsciously. 

His hair is styled differently, no longer covering half his forehead, but slicked back and cropped shorter, way more flattering for his chiselled features. And the colour. Looks like he finally discovered toner, thank god, because it’s lighter, and compliments the gilt highlights of his tan skin. All in all, he looks more mature—handsome, even. 

“You comin’?” Atsumu says, dislodging Tobio’s distracted train of thoughts. 

He blinks owlishly at the older man, realising he was standing now and Hoshiumi had skipped off and Romero and Ushijima were by the bar again. “Hm?” 

“Kourai-kun and Bokkun wanna get out of here, maybe get more drinks somewhere else; they asked us to tag along, so you coming or…?”

Oh, Tobio really had been zoned out. He looks down at his watch; it’s not that late, but he’s starting to feel fatigue work its way into his muscles, energy fizzling out slowly. Carefully, he gets up, feeling pins and needles prick at his feet and shins. 

“No, I think I’m gonna head home. Maybe next time?” 

Atsumu presses his lips into a tight smile, and Tobio is sure he’s imagining the faint disappointment in his eyes. He’s really not that fun to hang out with so there is no way a guy like Atsumu—fun, carefree, social—would mourn the chance to spend even more of an evening with him. 

“Alright, next time then,” he claps Tobio on the shoulder once. “I’ll see ya’ Tobio-kun.”

“See you, Miya-san.”

At that Atsumu pauses, pulling a little face, “Ah-ah. That won’t do. Miya-san just don’t sound right, makes me sound ancient . Call me Atsumu.”

“Oh.” Tobio is a little taken aback, but he recovers quickly, “Okay, Atsumu-san.”

The smile he gets in turn is blinding. Somewhere from amongst the throng of people, Hoshiumi’s voice calls Atsumu’s name and tells him to hurry the fuck up. The man in question rolls his eyes, but there’s no malice to it, and then he turns to the direction of the voice, and Tobio turns to leave. Only, he makes it no more than five steps before he’s stopped.

“Wait! Tobio-kun.”

He swivels at the sound of Atsumu’s voice, seemingly still as bound to it as he was back in his second year of high school, and every day since.

“Yes, Atsumu-san?”

Atsumu turns to a table of businessmen, borrowing a pen from one of them before grabbing Tobio’s hand and beginning to scribble on his palm, “My number,” he says. “Y’know, so you can text me that you got home safe. And if yer ever in Osaka and want me to show ya’ around.” 

That’s…not what Tobio expected him to say. Hell, that’s not something Tobio would ever expect him to say. They’ve never exactly been friends, though Tobio’s not the expert on that sort of thing.

“Erm, thank you.” Tobio’s not sure why he stumbles over his words. They’ve never been his strongest suit, that’s for sure, but when it’s Atsumu his tongue gets tied more often, scalded by molten gold. “Same goes for you. If you're ever in Tokyo.”

“Cool.” Atsumu says, shoulders looking relaxed, if a little flushed in the face. His hands are so hot where they hold Tobio’s palm up, and Tobio almost mourns the loss when he pulls away. 

A thought begins to nag at him just then: what does this make them?

They have tread lightly on the edge of rivalry for so long, dipping in and out to other spaces—hushed conversations in stadium hallways and hurried kisses in an equipment cupboard, not talked about again—but now the lines are blurred. Tobio just wants a little clarity, but is it right to ask? Will it break a fragile thing?

“What—”

“Friends.” Atsumu says at the same time as Tobio begins to speak, startling the younger boy, “Sorry Tobio, ya’ looked like you were ‘bout to implode. We’re rivals, but I’d like us to be friends too, if that’s what you were wonderin’ about.”

Friends, huh?

Tobio nods, smiling faintly, “I’d like that too.”

“Doesn’t mean I’ll hold back when we play though,” Atsumu teases.

“I would expect nothing else.”

That’s another thing that has changed since high school then: Atsumu and him are friends.

Perhaps that is what their odd, little rapport has always been leading them to: a friendship born of direct completion that Tobio has yearned for, a healthy rivalry between two setters that he couldn’t dream of happening.

And yet, when he finally walks away, a part of Tobio feels as though this is not the end for their journey, if his thudding heart is anything to go by.

Another thing that hasn’t changed since high school seems to be the effect Miya Atsumu has on him. And for some reason, Tobio carries the same fire he felt when Atsumu copied his quick, all the way back home, thanks to a shared phone number and a declaration of friendship.

Chapter Text

TOBIO:

Hello, this is Kageyama Tobio.

TOBIO:

Just letting you know I got home. Thank you for the drinks.

ATSUMU:

oh my god…punctuation and capitalised sentences…

 

ATSUMU:

you even text like a goody two shoes

TOBIO:

Please don't bring that back.

TOBIO:

You’re too old to be bullying your juniors, Atsumu-san.

ATSUMU:

WHO THE HELL ARE YOU CALLING OLD?????? 

❧

TOBIO:

Your serving today was off.

ATSUMU:

you noticed that through the tv?!

ATSUMU:

not even the commentators said anything about it [rolling eye emoji]

TOBIO:

I’ve seen you play a million times, of course I noticed.

❧

ATSUMU:

you still in osaka? 

TOBIO:

Yes. We’re leaving tomorrow afternoon.

ATSUMU:

sick, come get breakfast with me tomorrow.

TOBIO:

Okay. 

TOBIO:

Where should I meet you?

ATSUMU:

uhhhhh you like onigiri right…?

❧

ATSUMU:

found your twin

[IMAGE]

TOBIO:

I’m not a cat.

ATSUMU:

aloof, loner, independent, laid back, weirdly flexible 

ATSUMU:

idk…sounds like a cat to me

❧

TOBIO:

I'm sorry about your wrist, Atsumu-san.

 

ATSUMU:

its fine. 

 

ATSUMU: 

not like its your fault 

 

 

❧

ATSUMU:

congrats on making the national team tobio-kun 

TOBIO:

Thank you Atsumu-san.

❧

Humidity clings to Tobio’s bones like a curse, far too hot under his skin, scalding between layers of flesh as he downs another shot, instantly met with a few whistles and cheers from his teammates. 

Well, the ones currently surrounding him at this table at the corner of the room, ruffling his hair, shaking him, and pouring more for him to drink, all the while chugging their own bottles of beer, shared by the Brazilian volleyball team who were also celebrating a win.

Japan has decimated Hungary in the first round, and Tobio feels as though he is on top of the world. The Olympics are every athletes dream, and though Tobio cannot wax poetic about it for hours and hours, he knows this is one of the greatest days of his life, because he gets to play more volleyball, this time on the world stage, against the strongest players. The thought is thrilling, dripping in his veins like liquid gold.

Music pounds from speakers in a language Tobio doesn’t speak. Maybe it’s Spanish, or Italian, or something like that. He’s never been too good with languages, and the fogginess clouding his mind does nothing to help. Neon lights flash a million colours in this room in the Olympic Village, and Tobio feels so small, trapped amongst hundreds of conversations yelled over a pounding baseline, drilling itself into the base of his skull. And yet he feels larger than life, one step closer to winning the whole thing. The carpet is trampled on by inebriated athletes, swaying to the rhythm as they grow more and more uncoordinated as the night goes on, not quite different from Tobio, who starts to get a little sloppy, losing all semblance of his usual reservedness.

He loses his teammates in the crowd, but he doesn’t really care, finding a cool wall to rest his overheated forehead against, choppy bangs sticking thanks to sticky layers of sweat gifted to him by Rio’s summer climate.

The team cares for him, Tobio thinks. 

He is nineteen, the youngest amongst them, and it’s his first Olympics, which seems to be enough to get every other member to dote over him as though he is their baby. He is thankful, because Rio is…well, Rio .

It is more alive than anything Tobio has ever seen: loud and big and bright. It is like another realm; his first time outside of Japan is for the 2016 Summer Olympics. He can barely believe it, but the feeling takes root in his chest as he flings himself head first into this city, this room, this night. He could lose himself in it. 

Sometime during the celebration, between rhythmic chants of Nihon, Tobio’s phone buzzes, and he escapes the mass of hot bodies to retrieve it from the depth of his trouser pockets, greeted by Miya Atsumu’s name on his lock-screen.

ATSUMU:

great game yesterday btw

ATSUMU:

well. yesterday for me.

 

ATSUMU:

that serve of yours is downright disgusting

Tobio snorts to himself, ignoring the strange look it gets from a few people around him, before typing out a response.

TOBIO:

Yesterday for me too, it’s like one am.

 

TOBIO:

Thanks though.

Him and Atsumu have been texting regularly for a little while now, ever since they exchanged numbers after that match months ago. They’ve even hung out in person a handful of times now, and he has grown accustomed to the types of things Atsumu says; that when he says disgusting, what he really means is brilliant.

ATSUMU:

sounds like someone’s up partying

 

TOBIO:

I didn’t want to but the team made me come along.

 

TOBIO:

Can’t even find the bastards now.

ATSUMU:

bastards? you kiss your mother with that mouth?

ATSUMU:

who are you and what have you done with my polite little goody two shoes?

Something snaps inside Tobio’s chest at that old nickname. The wreckage spills molten nostalgia in his chest, dripping and pooling like lava that feeds a searing fire within him. It breaks open something that Tobio has not allowed himself to feel for a long time, something sweet, something hot and burning. Something akin to the taste of Atsumu charring his tongue, making him want in a way he had not dared to ask him for. Something like frustration and annoyance and feelings of rivalry, only able to be relieved by wandering hands, and stolen kisses, and swollen lips.

He isn’t sure where this line of thinking is taking him, and to be honest, his thoughts are a little wobbly, so he stops focussing on them, thumbs spelling out a response. 

TOBIO:

Not a goody two shoes.

TOBIO:

Not little either.

ATSUMU:

you’re right

 

ATSUMU:

you can’t be a goody-goody with a serve like that

ATSUMU:

had those Hungarians on the ropes all on your own

TOBIO:

You could’ve done it too if you were here.

Atsumu’s text bubble lingers in the corner of Tobio’s screen for a moment too long. 

Fuck. 

He shouldn’t have said that. Curse him and his stupid bluntness. 

Atsumu has always kept them on equal ground, but Tobio’s in Rio and he’s back at home, and it is bound to sting. It is bound to grind his gears.

Tobio thinks of Oikawa, who despised how quickly he was catching up with him, how quickly he was progressing, how much he wanted to be a good setter. 

Tobio knows Atsumu is not Oikawa; he has more than enough evidence of that now. Namely the fact that Atsumu greets him after every game with a smile, whereas Oikawa only ever glared at him from across the net.

Tobio knows Atsumu is not Oikawa, but he cannot help but fret that this—Tobio’s skill, his ambition, his constant improvement, his spot on the Olympic team despite being younger and newer to professional volleyball than Atsumu—will push him away, just as it pushed Oikawa away all those years ago, when Tobio stepped onto the court to take the older boy’s place as setter for that practice match.

It sounds like he is gloating, and it’s too late to take the message back.

ATSUMU:

maybe

ATSUMU:

but i’m not there so we’ll never know

ATSUMU:

still, they had you to deal with—not easy imo

He deals with it so effortlessly, and it takes the weight off Tobio’s shoulders.

His insides contort, tightening, singed with a memory from long ago. Nationals, Inarizaki vs Karasuno, take one. Miya Atsumu stealing his quick like a carpet from under his feet and forever branding them as equals.

(He does not call him genius and reject him, nor does he hold him on a pedestal out of reach. He does not look at him like something to simply beat into the ground. He looks at Tobio like they are searching for the same thing, like they are running towards the same ending. He calls Tobio both a rival and a friend, and texts him after every single match, texts him at random times of the day, talking to him in such a relaxed manner that Tobio can’t make sense of it—of him).

Tobio is replying before he even thinks the sentence through, making a promise like that of Atsumu’s in his third year.

Back then it was Tobio who had to blindly follow the sound of Atsumu’s voice; this time, he is the one standing on the precipice, waiting for the older setter to catch up and watch the sunset with him.

TOBIO:

Next time they’ll have to deal with both of us.

ATSUMU:

i’m holding you to that

TOBIO:

You can’t

 

TOBIO:

M tipsy

 

TOBIO:

It’s not fair to hold me to anything

ATSUMU:

how much have you had?

TOBIO:

Dont know

 

TOBIO:

A lot?

 

TOBIO:

My head hurts

ATSUMU:

go to bed tobes and don’t forget to drink plenty of water

ATSUMU:

i’ll check up on you later :)

Tobio would be lying if he said that simple phrase didn’t make his soul soar. The utter care Atsumu displays sometimes is disarming, and it leaves him full of something he cannot name. Something scalding; something intensely wanting.

He doesn’t want to go to bed.

He can’t .

There is a blaze scorching under his skin, lighting him up like a firecracker. There is a pounding in his skull—blaring, boisterous, driving away any peace. There is a nameless yearning persevering from between layers of everything he has built up over the years—something carnal, tearing through foundations broken down by the heady cloud of alcohol fogging his head.

There is a boy watching him.

Tobio knows he thinks that he hasn’t noticed, but he has.

( Always so perceptive, eh Tobio-kun?

Atsumu is in his head, coiled around his every thought, feeding useless commentary that only makes Tobio’s bones ache and his chest constrict, tight, tight, tighter . Like steel strings interlocking).

He looks up and meets his gaze head on. The boy smirks, and Tobio sees an outline he thinks he wasn't supposed to see. An outline that shouldn’t be there.

The stranger pushes off the wall on the other side of the room, and Tobio watches him as he approaches. Not a boy, but a man. His eyes are a muddy dark brown, not quite the right shade, but they look nice on his pretty face, framed with blonde hair, and for a moment Tobio closes his eyes, because it is far too easy to believe the stranger is someone else.

And that someone else shouldn’t be in his head in the first place, bleary around the edges, but every detail in full focus as though Tobio has spent a long time committing him to memory.

“Hey.”

Oh. 

He’s American. 

The man’s voice is deep, and he greets Tobio in English, but Tobio doesn’t really need words right now. They know enough of each other’s languages to get by, and the stranger is more than happy to talk for Tobio.

His heart twinges at the thought of another blond who isn’t afraid to carry conversations for them.

Between more drinks Tobio learns a few more things about the man, most of which he forgets. His name is one of those things, instantly in one ear and out the other, because it is not the name currently running in his every neurone. It’s not like he’ll need it after tonight.

The earth spins beneath his feet, the lights are blinding, and Tobio’s chest aches as he pulls the man into a kiss, sloppy and badly timed, but they’re both too gone to care.

He lets himself get lost in this city, this room, this night, this boy who is a pale shadow of another. He lets himself be pinned to the wall of an unfamiliar bedroom, and kissed until his lips are swollen and his throat is tight with want. He lets himself fall head first.

He is a king, but he sets his crown aside and lays the kingdom of his body onto another’s sheets, letting him get under him and around him and cover every inch of him with his presence. Letting him blanket every nerve of Tobio’s mind so thoughts of Atsumu would be stifled before he begins to want him in a way he hasn’t dared to want before.

But Atsumu is stitched into him, and this man cannot tear him out, even with his teeth sinking into Tobio’s neck, and his nails sharp against his skin.

And Tobio’s mind is stubborn; it asks questions that Tobio doesn’t want to hear, let alone answer.

(Would Atsumu touch him like this? With hands that tremble, or with precision that would strike him where it hurts, where it bruises his ego with harsh kisses? Would Atsumu know just what buttons to push, what parts of him to break apart? 

He always has been able to read Tobio like a book, always able to decipher his thoughts through mere expressions that confound others. He knows that they’re born with the same blue blood in their veins, both monsters amongst men. Atsumu would tear pages of Tobio’s existence out with his sharp incisors, would dig his nails into his cover, past the King of the Court, to the heart of plain old Kageyama Tobio, would run his hands down his spine until it is worn out).

The man leant over Tobio smirks, but it’s all wrong—it’s wrong, it’s wrong, it’s wrong.

Atsumu’s lips don’t curl like that. Atsumu’s hair is longer, slicked back, a completely different shade of blonde. Atsumu’s hands would never shake like this as they trace his bare skin. Atsumu wouldn’t call him Kageyama. Atsumu would call him Tobio. Keening, breathless, wanting, like a drug on his tongue—Tobio, Tobio, Tobio .

Atsumu would hold him with setter’s hands; the same hands that meet his under the net as promises are exchanged.

It is not the stranger’s name that he thinks of when his vision flashes white that night. It is not the stranger whose existence is twined around the pathways of his brain. It is not the stranger’s voice he hears in his dreams.

It’s Atsumu, Atsumu, Atsumu, burnt into his flesh like a brand.

❧

Tobio wakes early the next morning with a sore body, tightly-strung muscles aching as he collects clothes strewn around with little care, all whilst nursing a terrible headache and trying not to awaken the guy from the night before.

That would make this awkward. Tobio’s got enough awkward to deal with already, what with him never returning to his and Ushijima’s shared room last night.

Ushijima however doesn’t make a big deal out of anything, and Tobio feels silly for expecting otherwise. This is Ushiwaka after all: he’s collected and calm and stoic and he just gets Tobio without any effort.

He watches Tobio enter their room from the sofa, nodding at him once, “I made breakfast, help yourself.”

“Oh.” Tobio didn’t expect that either, “Thank you Ushijima-san.”

Once Tobio is settled, he disappears for a moment, only to return with a carton of vending machine milk, setting it down on the table. Tobio nods once in thanks. With them it is all silent communication, conversations had through small gestures that other people don’t really understand. He’s glad that he has a teammate that gets him so easily.

“I’m heading off to the gym for a little while, before practice.”

Tobio swallows a gulp of milk, “Okay. Train well.”

“Rest up.” Ushijima is then gone, stepping out of their room, leaving Tobio to chomp down on his breakfast and actively try to ignore everything his mind and body made him think of.

He’s not into Atsumu like that. Sexually, romantically, whatever. It’s just…It’s just not what they do . They’re rivals; they’re friends. Their relationship is ambiguous, unclear even, constantly under redefinition, but it has never strayed further than a few unexplained kisses back in high school and Tobio is too damn old to be hung up over them. To be hung up over a boy who has done nothing more than be somewhat nice to him.

(You’re only nineteen, Tobio, reminds a voice that sounds way too much like Romero, and okay, he’s right. Tobio is only nineteen, but that still means he’s old enough to know that a kiss can just be a kiss. Especially if it happened three fucking years ago).

So, Kageyama Tobio sits there and convinces himself that anything he thinks under the influence of alcohol means absolutely zilch in the grand scheme of things.

That is, until he checks his phone, met with a few more texts from Atsumu.

ATSUMU:

said id check up on you so here i am

[IMAGE]

 

ATSUMU:

bet you miss japanese food so don’t be jelly tobio ;)

The image is of Atsumu, cradling a box of onigiris from Onigiri Miya, which is first of all, completely cruel to send to someone halfway across the world, and second of all, completely fucking distracting. 

He’s wearing a tank top, well defined arms out for everyone to see and Tobio thinks he must be going insane. This is ridiculous. He’s nineteen; he’s seen arms before. He’s an athlete for crying out loud, and yet he’s sitting at his breakfast table, heart in his mouth because Miya Atsumu looks unbelievably good in a tank top.

He is thrust back into his all consuming thoughts: friendship is not clarity enough, and Tobio is sick of his inability to define his relationship with Atsumu, his feelings for him. Is it admiration? Friendship? Lust?

There is another word, but Tobio does not even entertain the possibility. Things like that are not made for boys like him and Atsumu. Not to share anyway. Not when they share the history that they do; rivalry, and competition, war time decrees hung around their necks since the ripe old age of sixteen. Both starving things that can never know satisfaction.

But this lack of definition isn’t new: Tobio has long since given up on figuring out what Atsumu is to him. Not when they are so often changing, evolving, picking each other apart to learn something new. Mirrors of each other’s pasts, of each other’s presents, perhaps of each other’s futures.

Tobio knows he cannot deny it.

It seems he has felt attracted to Atsumu for a long time. Annoying as that may be. The older setter has always fascinated him, both on and off the court, with his easy plays and even easier social skills. It’s like the feeling grew with every meeting. Watered and nurtured by every time they shook hands, by every time they clashed on the court, neck and neck, by every time they promised a next time, still standing on the rubble of a battlefield beneath their feet. Set alight by the first time Atsumu grabbed Tobio and snogged the living daylights out of him.

They haven’t kissed since that hallway at nationals. Tobio won’t pretend that another kiss wouldn’t be welcome. Tobio perhaps won’t pretend around himself at all anymore: he doesn’t fully understand everything within him that burns at the mere mention of Atsumu, nor does he understand where this longing has come from, or why it is suddenly so potent, but one thing he knows for sure is that the older boy sets his insides on fire. 

He knows for sure, that even now, stone cold sober, he wishes it was Atsumu’s body pinning him down the night before. 

And that’s a truth he’ll just have to live with.

Chapter Text

Volleyball is a sport where two teams fight across a divide, separated by a net made of barbed wire and flames; their livelihood is tossed between their kingdoms. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth, until someone connects, an attack shattering through iron defences, tearing through the skyline, fracturing the stratosphere. Life, existence, the heart of the game—it is contained within the ball they fight with; a double edged sword that can crumble the competition, or slash the very hands that try to use it to their advantage.

Volleyball is a sport where you always look up. Coach Ukai said that many times back when Tobio was at Karasuno. It is one of many things that will stick with him, perhaps with all of his then-team.

Volleyball is a sport where you stare at the sky, golden sunlight over your eyes. Tobio knows he has always been captivated by that sun—the incandescence of volleyball—bright and blazing, cracking amongst stadium lights, as enchanting now as it was over a decade ago, capturing the heart of one chubby-faced, knobbly-kneed, grandpa’s boy. He has been forged into a winged creature, always striving to inch closer to the aureate hues of victory, to burn himself into the eternity of volleyball.

Yet he seems to have forgotten his utter humanity, intrinsic vulnerability born of chance and luck carried out in split seconds on the court that spell out devastating consequences. Tobio’s wings are wax, and mighty flocks like that of the Japanese Olympics team can still have their appendages ripped from their backs.

When he meets the linoleum ground, it feels like jagged earth, sharp gravel cutting bitter reality into him. Tobio sees Japan’s livelihood thud by their feet, sees bloodied feathers float around them, torn from their backs. 

They lost.

He is going home with no medal, and singed wings; Icarus flew too close to the sun, and now he can go no further, forever yearning to taste solar flares on his tongue, the elixir of volleyball, of the Olympics, of the chance to keep playing.

It feels like he is running on empty, sporting scars that stretch across his shoulder blades, invisible to the naked eye, yet harsh in the light of his regrets, his longing to just keep fucking playing. It’s all he has ever wanted. That desire to remain on the court has lined his heart throughout his entire life, it has been the one thing that has never wavered—sticking on the inside of his ribs through thick and thin.

Briefly, he thinks of when he used to go easy on his serves to prolong matches. He thinks of his first year in high school, where he would stifle his good judgement out of fear of creating rifts that would steal him away from the court. He thinks how he has never stopped craving for the court like it is food, and water, and air—the very life that flickers within him.

His flight back to Japan is in the morning, and Tobio cannot sleep. He tosses and turns, body tangled in sheets uncomfortably in the Brazilian heat. He wants to cry. He can feel tears welling up, hot and searing in the whites of his eyes, but they do not fall, instead clumping together into a dull ache behind his brow bone; persistent and painful.

Tobio is lost in creating patterns out of the ceiling design in order to distract himself, when pale light flashes up at the spot where he’s staring, dissipating into a vignette that peters off into the darkness of his and Ushijima’s room. He turns his head to the bedside table, catching sight of the ace sleeping in his bed, chest moving up and down steadily. Tobio envies him for how peacefully he could sleep.

He tore his eyes away and focused on his phone, the creator of the disturbing light, hand flailing out to grab it. He has been actively avoiding his phone, but now he is faced with a bunch of notifications, mostly from current and ex teammates, probably offering whatever soothing words they could following a loss like this. The name that sticks out is the one that always sticks out.

Miya Atsumu, bold lettering spelling out a few simple words that both placate and scar Tobio all over again.

ATSUMU:

you played great

ATSUMU:

next time, tobio-kun

Tobio’s throat tightens with something unknown, sharp claws dragging against cartilage and smooth muscle, leaving flaming paths that he cannot fully swallow down. Something about Atsumu’s words is soothing, however, lathering itself on his shoulder blades like a thin, sheen layer of gold, patching open wounds once more, reshaping wings of wax with promises he really shouldn’t have the right to make.

And yet, Tobio believes him, bound to blindly follow his words as though they are holy writ. 

TOBIO:

Next time.

TOBIO:

Thank you, Atsumu-san.

Sleep comes easier to Tobio after that, wrapping its inky arms around him, coddling him in calm, mollifying warmth, like a blanket, or an open fireplace. Atsumu is good with words, Tobio has always known that, admired it even, and yet it still surprises how easily he can heal him from across oceans, promise and challenge and surety he should not possess, granting Tobio’s wings back.

Next time, they will play again, and remain on the court for as long as they can—Icarus will never learn, eternally chasing halcyon and aurelian. He was made for this after all.

❧

Back in Japan, crows gather once more, seated in an izakaya, a long line of old friends at a low table, meeting once more to celebrate Tobio’s olympic run. Tobio’s not sure there’s much to celebrate, but hey, all his friends are here, so who is he to complain?

“S’okay Kageyama,” A very tipsy Tanaka drapes himself over Tobio’s shoulders, breath sweet with the stench of shōchū, but honestly, he’s not all that different from usual. Boisterous and just as ridiculous as Tobio remembers. “Even if you didn’t get gold, you made your senpais very proud!”

His voice wavers and cracks; Tobio is utterly mortified when he realises Tanaka is crying. Like actual tears. What the fuck.

From his right side, Nishinoya also attacks, head unceremoniously thrust against his bicep, one flat palm coming to crash against his back. “Super proud!”

Tobio sits with his shoulders raised ever so slightly, unsure of how to act, awkwardly still and silent, hoping they can return to some sense of normalcy as soon as possible. Well. As close as possible when it comes to Nishinoya and Tanaka.

From across the table Suga snickers into his hand, cheeks kissed pink by the flush of beer, and beside him Daichi facepalms, but Tobio can tell from his shaking shoulders that he is stifling a laugh. The sight is utterly warm. Pleasant and snug and tender and warm, warm, warm .

Ennoshita rolls his eyes and tugs Tanaka back by the scruff of his collar, much to the amusement of Narita, creating space for Yachi to settle between him and Tobio. Tsukishima is making some grand, snide speech about their Royal Highness’ tragic loss, and Tobio makes sure to flip him off. Still there is fondness in the gesture, fondness in the way Tsukki’s eyes crinkle despite his returning insults. Yamaguchi does not comment much, but Tobio can see the curl of his lips, the cogs of his brain turning as he snatches up some karaage—he’ll jump in with an equally as savvy obiter. That’s their captain; a devil in an angel costume.

The atmosphere is a gentle lull on the shores of Tobio’s mind, casting him back to just last week, back to the Adlers. He and Ushijima had not made any noticeable changes after Rio. They slept, they ate, they played, they trained. Living and breathing volleyball as always, and yet…

Obviously, Tobio cannot fully speak for Ushijima, but their easy understanding is a two way street, and he knows the opposite hitter was feeling much like he was. Unfulfilled. Desperate. Ready to huddle away into a corner of his room, and wallow in despair despite not being able to have done anything at the end of their final Olympic match.

Hirugami and Romero were absolutely not having it. They had dragged them out of their self-pity with ease, exchanging easy conversations and jokes over dinner in their dorms. Heiwajima and Romero stuck around for as long as they could before going home to their respective wives and children, but Tobio appreciated every moment spared, touched by the care the Adlers showed sometimes. They treated him like their little brother, and something about it was utterly sweet. More feathers that congregate in patterns on his back, strengthening wings that he thought melted off under a harsh olympian sun. 

He thinks of Hirugami’s shoulder pats, of Daichi’s nods of approval, of Suga’s candied congratulations and praises, of Romeo’s doting nature and hair ruffles, of Nishinoya’s loud, affectionate accolade, of Hoshiumi’s bold claims that Japan 2020 will see him single-handedly defeating the French bastards that sent them packing, of Yachi’s demure congratulations, of Kiyoko’s brief huffs of laughter at Tanaka’s drunken antics, of Tsukishima’s unique brand of care and Yamaguchi’s sincere awe at Tobio getting as far as he did, of Ushijima’s genuine understanding, having lived through the Olympics with him.

Tobio thinks of his two chosen families, content in a way he rarely feels; warm sunlight pooling in his gut, somewhat like everything Icarus has always chased.

Hinata isn’t here. Tobio didn’t expect him to come back, not really. There is a reason for his distance, for his journey across the ocean. He has always had an incomparable drive, the thirst of a thousand solar systems stored underneath his skin, itching for release. He craves volleyball; he wants to be the strongest, because only the strongest get to keep playing, Tobio told him as much.

What he didn’t expect was for a mellow Yachi to ring him up, or for him to pick up either.

“Yachi-san!” Hinata’s voice is bright and full of life even over the ocean of crackling static between them.

“Hinata! I missed you so much! How are you? Are you eating well? Are people being nice to you? Did you make new friends? Ah I’m sure you did you’re a total angel, anyone would be crazy to not wanna be your friend—”

“Yachi how about you let him actually get a word in?” Daichi chuckles, voice smooth and peppered with mirth that only increases tenfold when Yachi’s mouth clamps shut and her face goes cherry-red. 

“Was that Daichi-san?”

“Yeah we’re at that reunion I told you about, remember?” Yachi says, or tries to say, because her voice is drowned out by Nishinoya yelling right into the microphone, raucous cheer bound to bust the speakers of Hinata’s phone.

“ Shouyouuuuuuuuuu ! How’s my favourite kouhai?”

Hinata’s laugh travels in light peals carried by a smooth audio, “I’m doing alright Noya-san.”

“Haven’t heard from you in a while you bastard!” The libero scolds, “What, too transfixed by Rio’s beaches to check up on your poor old senpais?”

There is a general, amused snort that ripples across the table, and Tobio finds himself chuckling along, feeling a little loosened by the beer he had downed, and the warmth sticking to him like a second skin. He leans his head back against the wall, and Yachi leans against him, the both of them listening to wooden chopsticks snapping up whatever food remains, glasses clinking under the sound of the fan overhead and Hinata’s voice through Yachi’s speakers, background noise growing louder.

“Where are you right now?” Yamaguchi asks, and Tobio only notices the question because he has to reach up to grab a bite of hiyayakko, the flavour of soy sauce and katsuobushi tingling on his tongue.

“The beach.”

“Of course.” Tsukishima says, rolling his eyes just as Suga leans over Daichi and demands Hinata show them.

It takes a moment, but Hinata soon blips onto the screen. Brazil has done him some good, clearly. His skinny, twig-like arms have filled out, shoulders broader and skin lathered by sunlight until it is tan. Tobio watches absently as he shows them white-san beaches, stark navy crashing against shores, only pulled into the conversation when the camera lands on a beach volleyball match.

He shuffles over to the other side of the table, slanting in order to get a better look. A play is carried out on uneven umber land, the ball zipping in briny air with a harsh force, received and set with ease that should not be possible. A cloud of sand bursts from the ground where a point is scored. Tobio feels chills from seeing a good play.

The video suddenly flips and Hinata is back, bright-faced as ever, only to startle, almost dropping the phone. Brazil clearly didn’t cure him of his debilitating dumbassery, “Kageyama, when the hell did you get here? And stop snickering, asshole.”

Tobio huffs, “I’ve been here the whole time. The reunion is to celebrate me getting back from the Olympics, after all.” He says.

Hinata’s eyebrow ticks and Suga wheezes out a laugh, clapping Tobio on the shoulder, “Just as blunt as ever, eh Kageyama-kun?”

Tobio isn’t really sure what to say to that, so he shrugs. There is something burning in the back of his throat, however, something that needs to be said. Hinata has been gone for a year now, and Tobio has been making leaps and bounds in that time. He needs to know, needs confirmation, needs to hear Hinata’s footfalls echoing on the tarmac behind him—closer, closer, closer .

Is he keeping up?

Is he still chasing him?

Is he being the somebody better that Tobio was promised?

“Did you watch?” He asks, and Hinata’s head snaps up from where he was rummaging through his bag. There’s a question on his lips, but Tobio clarifies before he can word it, “The Olympics, my matches—did you watch?”

Hinata purses his lips, a flash of something passing in his eyes. Tobio can’t quite define it; it is full of familiarity, however. A pale shadow of when Tobio was invited to the U19 training camp—annoyance, and jealousy, and determination, peppered with admiration that has become less begrudging over the years.

“I had shifts at work, but yeah. Yeah, of course I watched.”

Tobio nods, “Good.” He swallows dryly, “Keep watching.”

There are words unsaid hanging in the air, stretched out across oceans between them.

Keep watching. Keep chasing. 

Don’t you dare look away.

Hinata seems to hear them, just as he always has. He nods back, tenacity and conviction like rocket fuel, bursting in flames against the chestnut backdrop of his eyes—dreams of starlight reflected. Hinata understands. He will follow, though there was very little doubt in Tobio against that.

The subject moves on quickly after that, and Tobio finds himself slumped back against the wall once more, done with the conversation. He and Hinata don’t really need many words; what he has said is enough for them, so he helps himself to some shōchū, enjoying the soft glow that slides down his throat, heating the furnace situated in his stomach until his face flushed with prickling warmth, numbing into a content blush.

From the depths of his pocket, Tobio’s phone buzzes. A little groan escapes his lips as he fishes it out.

ATSUMU:

guess what i just got

TOBIO:

Onigiri?

ATSUMU:

no, what the hell is it with you, ‘samu and onigiri??

TOBIO:

It’s good?

TOBIO:

And you eat as much onigiri as Osamu-san and he owns an onigiri shop.

ATSUMU:

don’t get all snarky with me tobio

TOBIO:

I’m only stating facts.

ATSUMU:

yea well you and your supposed ‘facts’ are rude :(

ATSUMU:

miss the days when you were still a sweet goody-goody who’d never be rude to his favourite senpai

 

TOBIO:

You are not my favourite senpai

ATSUMU:

what the fuck…you wound me </3

TOBIO:

Are you going to tell me what you got?

ATSUMU:

not anymore you brat

Tobio wouldn’t really call himself sarcastic, or snide, or a tease. Those were more specialities of louder, more socially confident men. Men like Oikawa, Tsukishima, and Atsumu. But Tobio is no saint; he is aware of his brusqueness, his blunt manner of putting things. That was highschool, though, and Tobio has long since picked up a few tricks here and there, that is why he shoots off a simple message and places his phone face up on the table before him.

TOBIO:

Ok.

Bluntness and brusqueness do not fade, but that doesn’t mean he cannot paint over ancient walls with a little colour every once in a while—neon attempts at banter. It comes easy with Atsumu after all these years. 

Their rapport is no less strange than it was before the older setter’s declaration of friendship, and Tobio must admit, it is unnerving that Atsumu is so multifaceted. Cold, hazel eyes and taunting leers, a natural, sharp talent for riling others up; that is Atsumu at face value. Tobio has been acquainted with that side of him for many years, but that is only one slither of a man with an endless personality, stretching like the horizon—like the sky.

Tobio has realised Atsumu, peculiarly, has an innate ability to ease those around him. It should be a jarring change from his usual rowdy, borderline terrible, personality. And yet, Tobio didn’t even notice himself opening up until he sat down and actively thought about it. Smooth words, smooth smiles, smooth conversations; Atsumu is smooth and Tobio is a sucker who discovers he has been colouring in the mural of their relationship with hues that are not all that standard for him.

Atsumu makes it easy to joke around, easy to tease, easy to splatter bright yellows and blues over a previously blank canvas, and reveal sides of himself back. That is why Tobio feels comfortable enough to tease, to trip Atsumu up, and sit back, awaiting childish whinging that has come to be expected of the older setter.

His phone buzzes once. Then twice. Then three times.

Brilliant, it is just what he expected would happen.

ATSUMU:

WHAT THE HELL TOBES?!

ATSUMU:

that ain’t what you’re meant to say. you’re meant to be invested in my life

(seen)

ATSUMU:

TOBIO??

(seen)

ATSUMU:

DON’T IGNORE ME ASSHOLE

(seen)

ATSUMU:

I CAN SEE YOU’VE READ THESE

(seen)

ATSUMU:

… 

(seen)

ATSUMU:

fine...i’ll be nice

(seen)

ATSUMU:

you’re not a brat, happy now?

Tobio huffs out a laugh, barely audible. 

TOBIO:

I’m not snarky or rude either

ATSUMU:

you’re a dick

TOBIO:

Thought you were being nice?

 

ATSUMU:

ughhhhhh tobio, will you lemme show off my tattoo or not?

TOBIO:

You got a tattoo???

ATSUMU:

that’s literally what i’ve been trying to tell you this whole time

ATSUMU:

here look

[IMAGE]

ATSUMU:

samu got the same but on his left collarbone

ATSUMU:

sick, right?

‘Sick’ is an understatement.

Simplistic ebony lines extend from over his right shoulder all the way below his collarbone, thin lines stark against his bronzed skin, creating the soft outlines of a ginkgo tree branch. Just peeking out of his shirt collar, under his left bone, seem to be sleek roman numerals, the first of which stood for the number eleven. 

But what really hardens Tobio’s lungs is the sight of Atsumu in the picture, tugging at his collar to show off the tattoo. His neck is arched to the side, taut, and Tobio absently wonders what it would be like to sink his teeth into that spot right there—above the junction of his shoulder and neck. 

He wonders if he could feel Atsumu’s heartbeat against the flat of his tongue if he pressed it into his clavicle—if he could taste it. 

Atsumu’s face isn’t in the picture, but Tobio’s mind is preoccupied with thinking up expressions the older setter could possibly make if Tobio brought teeth and tongue and lips to graze and kiss the line of his sharp jawline.

His chest feels tight and that realisation he had back in Rio, alone at the breakfast table of his room, jumps to the forefront of his brain, searing itself into his skull like a particularly irritating brand. Atsumu is hot, it whispers. A useless reminder because Tobio can clearly fucking see that. He knows Atsumu is hot.

Hot is a broad term, not specific enough. But Tobio’s afraid if he thinks about it in any more detail his skin might catch alight from how ardently his cheeks are burning—alcohol born warmth sparking into an open flame situated under his skin.

“Woah, Kageyama.”

The awed whisper tickles against the side of his neck, and Tobio jolts, attempting to obscure his phone from sight, safe against his chest when he looks up at the intruder to his personal, Atsumu-related breakdown.

Tanaka smirks, a singular eyebrow arched up. There is something glinting in his eyes that Tobio doesn’t like; it spells trouble.

“Sooo, who was that?”

Tobio clears his throat, “A friend. You remember Inarizaki’s setter don’t you? Atsumu-san?”

“Ah. Atsumu -san.” Tanaka repeats, nodding and slowly leaning back as if he is ready to drop the conversation, but that mischievous glint never fades and Tobio can feel that it serves as a premonition for something truly awful.

“Hey guys,” the older man calls out, gathering the attention of the group, even Hinata who stops mid-sentence, clearly squinting to try identify Tanaka on his screen, “Did you know Miya Atsumu’s been sending our Kageyama thirst traps?”

Tobio promptly chokes on his own spit as the table around them descends into chaos.

“Thirst traps.” Yamaguchi parrots, eyes wide and jaw hanging open. “To Kageyama ?” 

Tsukishima snorts, pushing back his glasses, “What are they of? Mikasa balls and fresh KT tape?”

Another wave of laughter washes over their table, and despite downing water to clear his throat, Tobio flips him off.

“It’s actually of his neck.” Tanaka presses his lips together as Nishinoya lets out a scandalised gasp.

“Neck pics before marriage?” Noya tuts, shaking his head, adopting the tone of a stereotypically judgemental auntie, “And here I thought you were still a sweet little boy.”

Tobio stammers out an incomplete sentence, unsure why his face feels so hot and his ears are ringing, “He was just showing off his new tattoo.” His voice sounds petulant even to his own ears, but it works, because Asahi ‘awwws’ and Kiyoko tells everyone to leave him alone. 

Of course, not before Suga makes a suggestive comment about the whole situation, and Hinata cackles over a cracking connection.

With everyone’s prying eyes finally averted, Tobio unlocks his phone and types out a response.

TOBIO:

It’s really cool, Atsumu-san.

TOBIO:

Suits you.

ATSUMU:

flatterer 

ATSUMU:

would you ever get a tattoo? 

Tobio knits a brow. He hasn’t ever really thought about that. Miwa has one, he thinks, or at least, she said she’d get one.

He lets his gaze drift around the table, at his friends, his family—parts of himself lended by those around him. They are something he would want inked into permanence. The wings on his back that forever chase heavenly aurelian, that is something he would want etched for eternity. 

TOBIO:

Yeah. A small one.

ATSUMU:

you should go for it

ATSUMU:

i think you’d look hot with tattoos

Tobio’s heart does not jump into his mouth over such a small compliment. It does not. Except for the fact that it does. Just a little bit.

He can taste sunlight on his tongue as he tries to swallow back down the tight feeling that grows in his throat; he can feel wax wings hardening into something real, feathers ruffled by what is most likely simple politeness.

Like he said, there are many sides to Miya Atsumu, many kilometres of personality stretching like azure hands over the earth. But one thing is constant; one thing has been there since day one, through thinly veiled provocation, and still remains, in velvety styles of speaking that put Tobio at ease.

Atsumu burns like some bright light. He always has; he has been fire in every moment Tobio has known him. Flaring and untamed, lashing out in games with flickers of ardent passion. Tobio thought he was perhaps a bonfire, or lava erupting from the mouth of a volcano, but perhaps he is more than that. 

Fire brings life; Tobio knows Atsumu sparked existence into the King once more, but that is no easy feat. 

Perhaps Atsumu is solar flares, a blazing star leagues away, far from anyone’s reach. Warm from afar, but if you get too close, he will send you hurtling to the ground in smoke and ash. Tobio should take that as a warning, but that’s Icarus’ problem isn't it? His fatal flaw. His hamartia.

He wants too fervently, at the cost of his wings, at the cost of himself. He is too captivated by all things bright, and gold, and warm—hanging above in everlasting blue where no one can reach. Except Icarus and his frail wings.

Tobio knows he will burn if he chases this particular sun. If he keeps letting himself circle in his orbit.

And yet he thinks to burn, just this once, will make him feel alive.

Chapter Text

March, 2017

Three years in the V-League pass by like summer rains, and Atsumu plays his third season with MSBY, leaving a path of flames behind him, plumes of ashen smoke rising into the open sky—kingdoms he has torn apart to get here. Familiar faces were found at many shores. The Red Rockets and EJP Raijin, home to Aran and Suna respectively, were neither easy matches. Yet he eventually finds himself standing barefoot on a deserted beach, watching as eagles caw from above, circling the defeated.

From here, it is easy to confuse Adlers for vultures, waiting to pick apart decaying flesh, hungry for a feast. But Atsumu knows they are far too majestic to be likened to creatures so scraggy and slothful. There is a beauty to their attacks, synchronous dives and spikes with graceful ease—waves sinking into the shore with a vicious elegance.

They are a vast sea, alluring and shimmering under rays of stadium lights—sunshine casting a gold sheen over the champions. Yet something persists under the surface, a looming sense of danger, of the unknown, of depths no mere human can hope to reach. The Adlers are unbelievably daunting, formidable, even. 

Not that Atsumu is scared; he finds it rather thrilling.

If the Adlers are a raging ocean, kicking up a particularly strong, briny body of mist, then the Black Jackals are sailors chasing the point at the very edge of the earth, unperturbed by frigid splashes drenching their deck. Meian is the captain, yes, but Atsumu is the one who stands past the mast, hands on the wheel, dictating when to attack and which cannons to use. Bokuto is his first mate, yearning for the golden horizon despite the heavens streaming down in thunder, lightning, and raindrops that splatter against his skin.

They persist the will of the seven seas, fighting back with precision and skill of seasoned sailors who have survived many storms before.

However, there is something about this particular ocean, something about the figure that stands amongst them—a boy turned man, forming a whirlpool at their very heart. The Adlers are the fierce, of course, but Tobio—Atsumu watches the perfect arch of his back into a disgustingly meticulous set—Tobio is a commander, a god, Poseidon himself; pelagic warriors crying out in salt and foam, waging war at the flick of his wrist.

In the end, it is over before Atsumu even knows it.

A sharp serve from Ushijima, received off by Inuaki, just out of Atsumu's reach. He tries setting it to Bokuto, ball barely grazing his fingers, but it's too late, because the blockers are a high and mighty wall, killing Bokkun's spike before it even has a chance to pose a threat. It is like a gargantuan wave crashing down on their boat like a final blow. Atsumu doesn't even get the chance to process before they are overturned and he catches sight of Tobio standing across the net, the beginnings of a smug smile plastered over his reddened face. 

He can't help but watch on, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as a feeling fills his lungs, something like salty water sloshing into him.

Atsumu would say he knows himself quite well, or so he likes to think.

He knows that volleyball means the world to him. He knows he loves 'Samu more than anyone else on the planet, even if he doesn't always show it in a conventional manner. He knows he finds boys just as attractive as girls, and he's very comfortable with that fact. He has been for a while now, built up of self-assuredness and his general uncaring attitude towards the thoughts of strangers.

Yet his lax attitude and broad attraction didn't exactly translate into his high school experience.

Volleyball took up a lot of his time, and dating didn't exactly appeal to him all that much. That didn't mean he hadn't snogged a few people by the time he was eighteen, but nothing was ever too serious, because he didn't want it to be. Volleyball was where his commitment lay, and he couldn't really stand anything getting in the way.

A few casual high school relationships were enough to give him experience in that field, but it was all far from the shōjo romances manga characters seemed to live out.

In fact, Atsumu has had so few actual crushes that he could list them on one hand: that one girl on the school track team in middle school, the Inarizaki band conductor, Kita, obviously, and, of course, Aran, ever since they were like eleven years old. That last crush Osamu also seemed to share...along with half the student body at Inarizaki. Aran was a popular guy, still is. He even thinks Aran might have been the first boy he ever liked, or at least, the first one he realised he liked.

But Atsumu is an adult now; 'crushes' are childish and kissing strangers is no longer the high adrenaline, gossip-inducing phenomenon it was back in high school. People flirt, people kiss, people fuck. Who gives a shit? He flirts, he kisses, he fucks. Not that often, but he does. It's not a big deal if no one makes it a big deal.

He finds that it is something inherent to him—his way with words. Since middle school, he's been doing a whole lot of growing up, slowly coming to the realisation that people like a little charm, so much so that they are willing to forgive the bitter harshness he can display from time to time. He has cultivated a style of speech, a barrage of language, a certain charisma that he wields like a weapon; a discrete dagger that is carving out hearts before the victim even knows they're bleeding. He knows what people want—a roguish, mean-mouthed charmer with just the right amount of arrogance to not put them too off—knows what can make them blush, what can make them swoon over him, and his escapades since signing into the V-League are proof of that.

Everything remains transient, however. He is still loud and brash and rough with everything he handles, because although charm is something he can manoeuvre with ease, he is still Miya Atsumu—unflinchingly himself in every aspect of life. 

It is true that Atsumu is not as adverse to relationships as he was as a teenager, but no one catches his eye in that romantic sense. Perhaps that is for the best; Atsumu has heard love and sappiness softens defences and leaves even the strongest people weak. He isn't afraid to give, he's just picky about who is worth his time. And the last person to strike that particular heartstring was Kita, with his endless care; he was always kind and understanding and loving, even when he informed Atsumu that he didn't like him back.

Saccharine rejection ironically tastes more bitter than harshness; his calm smile stretched like a knife, blunt end hacking at Atsumu's bloody offering, through defences foolishly let down.

But whatever. It's been years since that, and Atsumu's over it; he has learned and grown. Who needs memories right?

Except, Kita isn't his problem. His few, off-hand, one night stands aren't the problem. His teenage crushes are not the problem. He very clearly understands them.

The problem is that weaved into those clear cut facts and feelings Atsumu can easily define, lies Kageyama Tobio, recipient of a few of those aforementioned snogs.

Tobio is a stream of thoughts yet to be explored.

The thing with him is that Atsumu has always known that the boy is attractive. Even when they were teenagers, Tobio stood out with his classically handsome features—tall figure, long legs, angled jawline, blue eyes. An eternity bathed in navy and brine, housed in glares and vacant stares that leave sea-salt coating Atsumu's tongue. Teenage Tobio was cute, in a sort of lost kitten way, made of pouts and confused looks and those choppy bangs.

Tobio now? Well that’s a whole other story.

Atsumu is almost embarrassed by the thoughts he has about the Tobio he sees before him now. He has been in the V-League for three years now; he has played a large array of matches, against a wide variety of players, and yet here he is, standing across the net from Kageyama Tobio once more, bubbling with the sort of excitement that has come to be unique to the younger setter—like mediterranean waves against bare feet, sand between his toes, briny air sucked into lungs with anticipation.

They shake hands like always and Atsumu can tell from the prideful look in Tobio's eyes that he is ecstatic to have led the Schweiden Adler's second consecutive championship win.

The goddamn bastards keep getting better and better, especially with Tobio growing so accustomed to pro-volleyball. He's their lucky charm; they haven't lost a season since he showed up. It's exciting to know the Adlers are so monstrous, but Atsumu was hoping for the title this year.

It is annoying that Tobio won again, but it is more annoying that Atsumu is not annoyed as he should be. It is annoying that all he feels is frigid water building up within him, covering him to his neck, drenching the heart that lies within his chest. It is annoying that all he wants to do is play Tobio again, and again, and again.

A singular memory of their first highschool match floats through his mind like debris in water; Atsumu had wanted to bring Tobio to his knees, wanted to see his adam's apple bob against the cold metal of his dagger. A part of him will always want to claw at Tobio until he burns alive, and there is a persistent smouldering in the pit of his stomach. There is disappointment, of course there is, bitter and alkaline in his mouth—saline dissatisfaction and defeat. But from amongst that feeling, something feels quenched, cracked lips healing and dry throat soothed. 

Atsumu almost scoffs at the ridiculousness of it all: merely playing Tobio has become a satiating sensation, a delight. Like an oasis found amongst sandy dunes. If anyone had told second year Atsumu that right after he met Tobio at the youth training camp, he would have laughed in their face.

But there's a whole lot of things that he's done now that sixteen year old Atsumu wouldn't have believed, like in Tobio's first season, he asked Tobio for his number, and crossed that invisible boundary of acquaintances that would be natural for them to have become. Teenage Atsumu didn't really want anything to do with Tobio at first, and now they text and hang out and suddenly he feels like the only real challenge Atsumu will always have. Funny how things work out.

Of course volleyball is still volleyball. There's challenges everywhere. That's true, and Atsumu enjoys all his games, but volleyball with Tobio is something else.

"Good game, Atsumu-san." Tobio says as he grasps his hand, handshake firm and steady—confidence oozing from his every pore. Their hands linger, remaining clasped for a moment too long; Atsumu's sure Tobio didn't even notice, but his own hands feel unbearably warm.

He tilts his head and smirks, regarding the younger setter from under his lashes. 

Tobio has grown up well, there is no denying it. Broad-shouldered and thick muscled, the fabric of his jersey stretched thin over his chest, thighs and biceps filling out his shorts and shirt respectively. Atsumu's thoughts about Tobio seem less and less embarrassing, simply because anyone looking at him would end up thinking them. Even that dorky hair-style he sported in his first year playing pro has been abandoned now, raven tresses grown out and split neatly down the middle, somehow managing to make the blue of his eyes even more prominent.

"Next time'll be an even better game." Atsumu says, not missing Tobio's mock look of surprise. Cheeky bastard. "Yeah, yeah, poke fun all ya' like Tobes, but I'll be crushing ya’ one of these days.”

"Whatever you say, Atsumu-san." He sounds sincere, but that twinkle of mischief never leaves his eyes, and goddamnit does Atsumu want to shut him up. Before he can say anything else, Tobio has moved on, and Atsumu greets the remaining Adlers one by one, trying very hard to not sneak glances of the younger setter.

❧

By the time he's back in the locker room, he's still thinking about Tobio, and that is what makes this whole ordeal so damn frustrating. The younger setter is always on his mind, sticking to his thoughts like barnacles to a ship hull. It's embarrassing, and annoying, and frustrating in the most aggravating way possible.

It feels like he's in his third year again, pent up with emotions that he couldn't explain, and a whole bucket load of chagrin for losing to Tobio—Tobio, who he thought was nothing more than a kid playing at being setter, squandering talent that would be best used elsewhere.

Except third year Atsumu would never have reached out and become friends with the boy in question. Atsumu is still a little unsure as to why he did it. Tobio had just looked so pretty that night in the bar, and it had just been nice talking to him. He supposes the last couple of years in the V-League have successfully (sort of) humbled him, and at the same time, Kageyama Tobio has burst into this monstrous numen of volleyball, far outgrowing the pathetic shell of a setter that had disappointed Atsumu when they first met. 

The utter displeasure of meeting a setter who stifled his own raw talent still leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, but it's truly impossible to liken Tobio now, sharp and controlled and unforgiving in his guts and abilities, to that unimpressive boy that Atsumu thought would fade away (until he beat Inarizaki and left Atsumu confused and borderline vengeful, that is). 

He respects Tobio, admires his skill, especially since it somehow manages to increase tenfold every time they clash, and that's why Atsumu thinks they can finally be friends, even if he absolutely detests his calm demeanour and all the ways it makes him want to smash his head into the nearest goddamn locker. Tobio never stops being exciting; he never stops growing, and Atsumu is still shocked he managed to be that wrong about him when they first met.

Atsumu's leap of faith into friendship, on the other hand, proved right, however, because the two of them have fallen into this easy dynamic. Bantering and bickering over text, taunting each other on court, shaking hands and promising a better next times. Yet something still bubbles under the surface; Atsumu can feel it as he sinks deeper into their relationship, strung out in the ocean trenches they share. Their rivalry still persists, strong and alive, adapting to deep water with every passing second, unperturbed by friendly feelings.

It has managed to survive, branching off from their high school days, a direct descendant of storage cupboard make out sessions and general handsy behaviour that Atsumu is pretty sure he initiated simply because he was annoyed by how wrong he was about Tobio, and how desperately he wanted to beat him—at anything. 

Being friends doesn't make Atsumu any less frustrated when he loses to Tobio. Being friends doesn't make Atsumu any less desperate to beat him. Being friends doesn't make years of tension dissipate, in fact, it somehow heightens the stakes of their rivalry, somehow makes everything all the more exciting. 

(It doesn't help that Tobio got super hot, either, because now, not only is Atsumu spurred on by the tension of their matches, he is also left feeling as though the carpet has been stolen from under his feet every time Tobio so much as smirks at him).

It's a real problem, and yet, Atsumu only manages to make things worse. A few months back he realised he had been subtly flirting with Tobio without even realising it, but knowing he's doing it somehow made it more fun to carry on. He's a natural charmer, he can't help it, and honestly, he doesn't really want to help it. Can anyone really blame him? Tobio's hot, they're relatively close, and they have an undeniable chemistry on court. It's not a crime to want to do unspeakable things to a guy that frustratingly attractive. Hell, Atsumu's shameless enough to try it according to his brother. Not exactly a compliment or a testament to his character, but he has made moves on Tobio before. 

Moves in this scenario meaning literally pressing him up against a wall and snogging the living daylights out of him because he had beat him and because Atsumu was always a sore loser.

Only now, Tobio isn't just lost-kitten-pretty anymore; he's pure fantasy fuel on legs, and kissing him is the least scandalous thing Atsumu wants to do. All of it is like dealing with out of control goddamn teenage hormones all over again, because yes, Atsumu is happy being friends with Tobio, but yes, he also wants to defeat him in the most vindictive manner possible, and yes, he would gladly take him to bed if given any opportunity to do so.

It's a lot, and it has all been building up since Tobio joined the V-League.

Atsumu pulls his jersey over his head, and slips into his MSBY jacket, rubbing at his eyes and pushing back his hair in an attempt to throw all those thoughts away. The rest of his team is occupied with changing, and hasn't seemed to pick up on his internal crisis, so he breathes a sigh of relief and hikes his gym bag onto his shoulder.

"I’m heading out now, ‘kay?" He announces, not waiting for an answer as he rushes out the locker room, in need of a little walk to cool off. He knows they’re probably going to be having dinner together, but he’s sort of not in the mood, skin too tight and body too tired. 

The problem with cooling off, however, is that the universe doesn't want to give him the chance to do so. 

"C'mon seriously?" Atsumu says, chuckling at the way Tobio jumps at his sudden voice. The glare he receives is so worth it. He grins, stepping closer and settling beside Tobio, leaning his head against the wall. The younger boy stares at him expectedly, "You couldn't even lemme beat ya' to the water fountain?"

Tobio appears unamused, but Atsumu spies the mirth twinkling in his eyes as he turns to properly face him. "Maybe you should get faster. There's always next time." He shrugs and Atsumu flicks his arm, penance for him being a cheeky bastard.

"Yer a menace Tobio-kun, always disrespecting your elders." Atsumu tuts, stuffing his hands into his pockets, "And here I was, about to ask ya' out for drinks like a real gentleman."

Tobio snorts, "You're not doing it out of the goodness of your heart, Atsumu-san, you lost a bet."

"Well I showed up to remind you in person, ain't I?"

"I would've preferred you texted me." 

"Aw c'mon." Atsumu drawls, lips stretching into a faux pout, "I wouldn't have seen yer pretty face that way, eh Tobes?" 

He winks, and Tobio makes a show of rolling his eyes, but the rosy flush beneath his collar gives him away; Atsumu feels like he can work with this. Flustered Tobio is far too cute not to mess with. 

He leans towards the younger boy, gently nudging his ribs, "Come onnnn, Tobio-kun. It’s rude to turn down your elders, y'know.”

Tobio's ears are pink now too, and there is a touch of hesitation before he answers, but when he does it is like a cool wave drenching Atsumu. "At this rate Atsumu-san, I'll never hang out with you again."

Atsumu throws back his head and laughs, eddies of warmth bursting in his chest, the ripple effect spreading all over him, until a sense of giddiness thrums in his veins, "Ya' like me too much for that."

"I barely like you." Tobio replies without missing a beat, dry simplistic wit that Atsumu has grown to adore. He feigns mulling it over, "But I'll come for the free drinks. Bet's a bet, right?"

Atsumu waves a flippant hand, "Yeah yeah keep lyin' to yerself. I know you're coming 'cause I'm yer favourite senpai ever." 

Tobio doesn't say anything in turn, simply shaking his head, mouth twitching with a suppressed smile. Atsumu grins to himself, watching Tobio pinch his brows at his reaction, poker-face a perfect mask, if not for the faint amusement spelled out by the waves of cold blue in his eyes.

Atsumu's about to tease him for it, when he spies the door across the hall from them, a plaque identifying it as an equipment room. A sea spray of memories splash through Atsumu's mind. He bristles, a little hot under the collar.

He tilts his head, glancing at Tobio, "Familiar, ain't it?"

Tobio stuffs his bottle back into his gym bag, giving Atsumu a look, "What do you mean?"

The older boy huffs out a laugh, pushing himself off the cold wall, knocking his shoulder into Tobio's, "Me 'n you, outside an equipment cupboard."

Tobio looks confused at first, but realisation soon washes over his face with a pink blush, and he ducks his head, "The under nineteen's youth camp."

His bashfulness makes Atsumu feel brave, so he says fuck it to toeing the line of flirting, instead diving head first off the cliff edge he has unknowingly been sitting at for so long.

"Fun, weren't it?" Atsumu tilts Tobio's head up by his chin. The younger boy stares at him from under his long lashes, and honest to god, Atsumu feels like his lungs are lined with salt, building up until it is harder and harder to breathe. 

Slender fingers wrap around Atsumu's wrist, gently guiding his hand away from Tobio's chin. His voice is low when he speaks, like placid flatwater, "You kissed me." 

Of course. Atsumu should have expected Tobio to jump straight to the key topic instead of dancing around the subject; his candour is a little unnerving, and it never fails to trip Atsumu up. It's one of his favourite things about Tobio, though, his bluntness; those short, straight-to-the-point remarks make Tobio easy to talk to, and even more easy to tease.

It won't stop him from playing around, though.

Atsumu spies a rivulet of sweat trickling down the side of Tobio's face, swiping it away with his free hand. Tobio's jaw tenses beneath his fingertips, and Atsumu feels a maelstrom bubbling underneath his skin, sea-foam and brine building up like a storm surge. 

"Pretty sure ya' kissed me too, but yeah, I did." He says, fully aware that Tobio wanted more than a simple acknowledgement.

Tobio frowns, "Why did you kiss me back then?"

Atsumu laughs, barely audible, chest tightening from the pressure building up in the air between them. "Did I need a reason?"

"You wouldn't have done it for no reason. It's not like you." Tobio adjusts the strap of his bag, hiking it higher onto his shoulder, as he glances at Atsumu with narrowed eyes. Through his unguarded expression, Atsumu can see the cogs turning in his pretty little head, and the query interspersed in the lagoon of his eyes. Tobio swallows, a picture of calmness when he asks, "So, why did you kiss me, Atsumu-san?"

Atsumu hates that he's so serene, so held together when it feels like Atsumu has high speed rapids running through his brain. He decides to play it cool, shrugging as if that will rid him of the burbling age-old exasperation trapped within his very bones, "You beat me."

Tobio's mouth creases into that frown-pout hybrid that is so characteristic of him, and he's utterly sincere when he speaks, "But I'm not the first person to beat you."

"Yeah well yer the first person ta' beat me like that." Atsumu lets a deluge of truth spill from his tongue, aware that their court presence has always affected their dynamic strongly, after all, both of them are volleyball fanatics. "That quick of yours, the setter dump; do ya' know how much you can wind an opponent up?" The look Tobio gives him suggests that no, he does not. "Tobio ya' beat me, and then ya' lost to Dateko before I got a chance to crush you. And on top of all that you had the gall to be nice to me? I was being a dick! And you just sat there and told me I should have been selected already? It made me look like even more of a cunt than I already was. I was annoyed, and in awe, and impatient to beat you." 

Atsumu pauses, reaching to adjust Tobio's jacket collar, smoothing down the soft fabric, palm ghosting against skin peeking out from his jersey—an excuse to get closer.

Tobio has outgrown him, just barely, and Atsumu finds he doesn't completely hate that. "I had to one up ya' somehow." Gingerly, he tucks a strand of hair behind Tobio's ear, shrugging, "I'm a real sore loser. Ask 'Samu."

Tobio purses his lips. Under the pasty lighting of the hall, he somehow manages to not look washed out, raven hair creating a stark contrast to his skin. He angles towards Atsumu, a faint echo of their final nationals together, perfectly clear impassivity on his face; Atsumu spies the crack in his mask, however. He knows just how competitive Tobio can be, and he knows that people always read him wrong, write him off as serious and intimidating. But even he is capable of teasing, in his own way, as Atsumu has come to learn over the last few years. 

Kageyama speaks slowly, voice lower than necessary, undertones of challenge hidden in its evenness, "Are you still a sore loser, Atsumu-san?"

(Atsumu wants to fucking scream).

He kisses him right there, one hand on the back of Tobio's neck, pulling him in to erase the little distance between their mouths. It is nothing more than a press of lips, a non-verbal answer for Tobio, filled with underlying intent, but he expected at least a little shock from the younger man, as he had shown all those years ago when Atsumu first kissed him out of the blue. This older Tobio doesn't seem phased however, almost smirking into the kiss like he planned for this. 

Atsumu pulls back briefly, arching a brow, fully aiming to regain some sort of control over the conversation, all too eager to pester, "That answer yer question—"

He hasn’t even finished talking when Tobio pulls him back in by the front of his jacket, and suddenly their mouths are back on each other, and Atsumu is the one left with tense shoulders and surprise crackling in his nerves. He should have learned his lesson by now, should have known that Tobio is an unexpected force, but it seems he still has much to learn about him. 

The younger setter is unrelenting, equipped with  tidal force as he presses Atsumu against the nearest wall. And his hands. They are everywhere, dragging down the fabric of his coat, skimming his back, cold against the skin of his waist. For once in his life, Miya Atsumu can barely keep up. And of course it is Kageyama Tobio who manages to do that—king of the court, turner of tides, born of sea foam and brine. The one person Atsumu has spent so many years trying to both define and constantly defeat.

Atsumu can't help but want the last word; he's competitive if anything, so in between harsh kisses and the weaving of his fingers between Tobio's soft locks, he speaks, obviously because he never learned to shut up. 

"Not such a goody-two-shoes anymore, are ya’?" He murmurs into the kiss, letting Tobio cradle his jaw in his hands.

"Don’t ruin this," is Kageyama's whispered response, barely discernible before he meshes their lips together, swallowing Atsumu’s chuckle in the process. 

Before Atsumu knows it, he and Tobio are exchanging short, slow, fire-cracker kisses; the rush of endorphins making him light-headed. In an attempt to get the upper hand, the next time Kageyama's lips hook to his, Atsumu lightly sucks on his bottom lip, forcing a little whimper from him. The sound shouldn't have the effect on him that it does, but nobody seems to inform that to the blood rushing in his ears. 

Tobio—the goddamn asshole—tilts his head back, mouth now just out of Atsumu’s reach, virtually apathetic expression plastered all over his face, despite his mussed hair and flushed cheeks and darkened eyes. It is practically infuriating to see him so calm, so seemingly unaffected, and Atsumu feels an undeniable urge to break him.

He supposes he has always wanted that: to crush Tobio like a fine powder, to maul through the boy that keeps managing to trip him up, to swim against the current created by his hand. But the feeling has grown exponentially now that Tobio has mostly shed the awkward teenage skin he used to wear.

Out of a need to win at something—as if this could possibly have a winner and a loser—Atsumu dips his head down to nip at the side of Tobio’s neck, dragging his hands down his jersey to fiddle with its hem. The younger setter swallows hard, and Atsumu smirks against his skin, all too happy to forge a trail of mauve with his teeth and tongue. The low noises he makes leave Atsumu smug and all too pleased with himself.

“Fuck,” Tobio curses as Atsumu sucks on the hollow of his ear, nails digging into his flesh like an answer, “I was supposed to get back to my team.” His hands don’t stop their incessant wandering though.

“Lemme guess, celebratory drinks?” Atsumu feels Tobio tilt his head up, pulling him into a lazy kiss. He reciprocates, framing his face with his hands.

Tobio mumbles against his mouth, slowly removing his hands from under Atsumu’s black jersey, “S’tradition. Plus, we always run into you lot one way or another.”

Atsumu steals one last kiss and then leans his head against the wall, watching Tobio take half a step back, leaving his torso a little colder without the added warmth of another body pressed against it. He really shouldn’t miss it but he does.

“Well I’m heading back to my hotel.” He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. He grabs his gym bag and takes a few steps away, but can’t help the little smirk on his lips when he turns to taunt Tobio once more, “I’d ask ya’ to come but m’prolly too much of a challenge for ya’, anyway.”

Tobio rolls his eyes, but when Atsumu turns to leave—very slowly, in case someone changes his mind—he hears the sound of footsteps following him soon enough. He glances at a frowning Tobio to his right, unable to quell the thrill that sparks within him at the sight of the intensity in his eyes—a tsunami of annoyance yet curiosity.

Tobio loves challenges, and Atsumu just issued him one, clear as day. Of course the little shit couldn’t help himself.

“Shut up.” The younger boy says, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

Atsumu barks out a laugh, mostly to hide the way his insides are trembling at this opportunity, at the fact that Tobio decided to stick with him, at the confirmation that he, too, wants to disassemble parts of Atsumu he hasn’t ever touched before.

“I ain’t even say nothing.”

“You were thinking something insufferable.” Tobio replies, tone clipped, but hand brushing against him every so often, scorching Atsumu in a damning red. 

“I’m insufferable ‘n yet yer followin’ me back to my hotel in hopes of a good fuck?” Tobio flushes red at that, still so easily flustered after all these years; Atsumu finds it unbelievably endearing.

Tobio scoffs, putting on a show even though Atsumu can see right through him, “I’m only going for those free drinks I was promised.”

The pair of them end up getting in a cab, and Atsumu watches Tobio shoot off a text to his team announcing that he’s cashing in that bet Atsumu lost—annoying brat, of course he told all the Adlers about that. The aforementioned drinks remain forgotten, however, when they finally wind up in Atsumu’s hotel room, more intrigued by each other than any childish bet they’ve made.

Atsumu spends the night sinking deeper and deeper into Tobio’s ocean, bathed in cerulean, kissed by cobalt, lost in the brackish waters that house Tobio’s lean, athletic form. Tobio drags him under his waves, lets him pin him down on soft sheets, lets him get lost in his mouth, in the way his hands grip onto him almost desperately.

He has always wanted to get Tobio onto his knees, although he doubts seventeen year old Atsumu thought it would happen quite like this.

Throughout the night, Tobio is unrelenting, a challenge even in bed, so effortlessly keeping up with Atsumu, spurring him on with sharpened looks and low whines that do convoluted things to Atsumu’s insides. And god, the noises he can make. Broken chorales that suspend Atsumu’s body in a dead zone, lungs tight, tight, tight—air breathed back into him by Tobio’s mouth on his.

When Tobio is underneath him, bitten shoulders mapping out the stretch of the sea against the sun, blissed out and dishevelled, Atsumu finally feels a sense of victory, heat pooling in his gut. Thirst for more sticking to his throat. He loves this feeling; loves the way Kageyama trembles beneath his palm—a fallen god, all for him.

Not that Tobio is in any way a pushover; the multitude of harsh marks marring Atsumu’s tan skin is proof of that. He is somehow as proficient in bed as on the court, bringing the same level of stamina and precision, a monster to his very core; Atsumu would hate him for it, if he wasn’t so preoccupied with reaping the benefits of such skill.

Atsumu doesn’t expect to fall in love with Tobio, doesn't even expect a repeat performance of tonight, but their chemistry is irrefutable, and the way Tobio is capable of making him feel is something he won’t mind feeling again. The physicality of their relationship is a welcome addition, and Tobio seems to agree, eager to pin Atsumu down once again. 

Tobio is a boy that Atsumu has never been able to place in a box, once a stream of thoughts yet to be explored, and he thinks their relationship is solidifying into something new, straying a little further than mere friendship. 

Whatever it is, he’s going to enjoy it while it lasts.

Chapter Text

During the summers of his childhood, Atsumu liked to watch storms from his window. He loved to count each strike of lightning on the horizon, spellbound by the force of nature that brought them about, transfixed by the speed at which they crackled down to the earth like a giant slamming its foot from the clouds. He remembers with frightful clarity, the colour, the sound, the shape, the flash of burning beryl against the shadows of the night, white hot and over before you know it, a mess of crooked arms reaching across the darkened sky, half formed shapes unrecognisable to the bare eye. The electric sensation that lingered in the air after it was over and done.

Kageyama Tobio reminds him of a thunderstorm. There is an electric suddenness to him, fierce and alluring, a flash of divine beauty burning through the dark, and yet here he is, currently sitting stock still under the sheets of Atsumu's hotel bed. A bolt of lightning suspended in time. 

It has been mere hours after they left the MSBY vs Adlers game, mere hours since the Adlers took home yet another championship, mere hours since Atsumu did the impossible and somehow got Tobio into his bed. 

The air around them is heavy, growing dense with a stale sort of awkwardness. A warning of storms to come. Atsumu feels as though he could stick his tongue out and taste the salty, acrid disturbance in the air, the squall so obviously making itself known in the silence that stretches between them.

Perhaps, it is because of what Atsumu has just said: “We should do this again.”

You see, Miya Atsumu has always been a man who acts before he thinks, a slave to his instincts, an addict of the all encompassing now. He lives in the moment, not one to linger in the past for more than necessary, not one to waste precious time fretting about future consequences either. After all, the more time spent worrying, the closer said future gets.

He is Eros, and he is Alexander; he knows what he wants and he gets it. He does not think about what comes next, only that he is hungry, ravenous, and he cannot be satisfied until he sinks his teeth into his desires, rips them out from the root until they bleed gold on his tongue. 

So really, it is no surprise that he did not consider anything past sleeping with Tobio. Because now they're in his hotel room, panting hard and flushed red, and he has gotten exactly what he wanted, but he does not know where to go from here. Because in all his mooning over Tobio, he somehow failed to consider that one hit of him may not be enough, that he may still want to sit by the window and count the lightning strikes as they descend from Tobio's fingertips.

The truth is, Atsumu does things because he wants to, because he cannot deny himself the pure pleasure of his greed, because he will never grow up and never stop yearning. His heart overflows in its desires, a ruthless pursuit of hunger with all a child's demanding. 

Tobio is not like that. 

Tobio is... calmer in ways Atsumu is not. 

Not to say he can't be an impulsive asshole—he can, by god he can. But Atsumu knows volleyball is the only thing he wants with that single-minded, unthinking, monstrous craving. It's one of the things he so admires about Kageyama, that pure love for volleyball; he understands it all too well. 

However, where Atsumu brings that same unthinking attitude to all aspects of his life, Kageyama Tobio off the court has always been awkward and full of self-doubt, always overthinking and honest to a fault. 

For Tobio to have thrown all caution to the wind and taken up the offer of a good fuck, he must have built himself up to it. And that must mean he's been thinking of fucking Atsumu for a long while now, letting the idea grow in his stomach like electric charge, until today, when Atsumu pushed too hard, and the blazing voltage tension became too much to handle, charged desire begging for release. 

It is a little thrilling, the idea that Tobio has been as frustratingly into Atsumu, as Atsumu has been into Tobio. That all it really too was a smirk and a challenge to get his resolve to shake; it means he could push him that far again, nudge him back into his bed, something he seems to want more and more with every passing second.

“Are you serious?” Tobio croaks, staring up at him, face entirely blank if not for his wide, wide eyes, almost panicked in their appearance. The words are a lazy slur amongst the low tremors of his voice, like the distant roll of thunder on the horizon. The warm light from the bedside lamp tracks the curve of his spine in a soft glow, lathering bare broad shoulders all the way down to where white sheets pool at his hips.

It is careful, his expression right now, like the sort of face a much younger Tobio made when Atsumu told him he meant exactly what he said, that Tobio was diligent, honest and obedient—an all round good boy. 

Atsumu thinks he could eat him up.

“As the plague,” he quips, reaching for Tobio without thinking.

He can only see half of Tobio’s face like this; the younger setter lays on his stomach, one arm curled around a pillow, keeping his eyes shut. He has a birthmark between his shoulder blades, a press of faint brown to his smooth, porcelain skin. Atsumu traces it with his finger, gentle and faint, a phantom touch. He is leaning down on one arm, bedsheets tangled with his legs, settled across the midway of his torso, twisted towards Tobio, as he lets his fingers drag down his spine.

They are deep into the night now, with clock hands hanging around three am and the bustle of the hotel quietened into nothing. Tobio looks gorgeous in the pale moonlight, skin glistening with sweat, bangs sticking to his forehead, like a true masterpiece that Atsumu has not so delicately torn up. It is strange perhaps, that he wants to stitch the seams of this magnum opus back together, paint over the damage, just so he may delight in breaking him down again.

A low hum, and a frustrated pinch of his brows lets Atsumu know that he is truly mulling his proposition over. His lips are swollen and raw, bitten and bruised, yet still twisted into that familiar pout that is just so Tobio. It’s reassuring, he supposes, the familiarity of that pout. 

We fucked and the universe is still in tact, it says.

“What would that make us?” Tobio asks, and it is tooth-rotting in its sweetness, the way he shies away, doesn’t look him in the eyes, fixated on the ceiling as if it could answer his question. His face is highlighted in soft pinks, his fingers playing with the lamp wiring sticking out from the gap of his bedside table. 

Atsumu loves the mean Tobio, the competitive and blunt bastard that he is on court, but he cannot say he is not also attracted to the sweet Tobio, a little lost, a little shy. So, so cute.

“Friends,” He says, shrugging, “but with benefits.” He knows Tobio likes clear cut definitions of his relationships, boundaries that help him make sense of it all, and so he adds, “We could do this kinda thing whenever, no strings attached. 200% casual. Outside the bed we're still friends, and we're not bound to sleeping with just each other and we can call this off whenever."

Tobio purses his lips, “But why?”

Atsumu tries not to be offended. “Y’know you can just say ya’ don’t wanna fuck again.” 

“No! No, that’s not what I’m trying to say.” Tobio rushes out, red-faced with embarrassment, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth in a way that is annoyingly distracting. “I liked…this. Like a lot. I just don’t understand why you would want to do it again.” 

“Um, I don’t know if you’ve noticed but you’re pretty fucking hot, Tobio-kun.” He watches the pall of a blush spread across the younger setter’s face, and gentle nerves leave a sour taste in his mouth as he chooses his words carefully, "M'not really lookin' for a serious relationship. 'N I like you a lot so I don't want this to ruin anythin' between us, but we're both single, we both need a good stress reliever, we both enjoyed this. Our schedules are similar and I think we’ve got good chemistry, wouldn’t it be easier than constantly finding strangers to hook up with?” 

Tobio seemed to pause, blinking at Atsumu before turning away and awkwardly playing with the edge of the duvet they shared. And in spite of being rather skilled at reading Tobio, Atsumu must admit he was a little lost at his thought process. Mainly, the older boy was hoping he didn't just fuck up their newly settled friendship. 

He quite enjoyed their easy rapport, so it would blow if he ruined it so early on. But he hoped Tobio agreed: it was how their dynamic had existed since their teens. A constant competition to outdo the other only to realise they were painfully equal, painfully destined to share a path. 

Only now the universe was telling them they could make each other feel painfully good in a way no one Atsumu has ever fucked before has managed to do.

In short, he has had a taste of Tobio—a real taste, not the juvenile samplings he has been allowed in their teens—and now he thirsts for more. He has danced in the pouring rain, amongst the howling winds, right at the heart of the monsoon; he has watched the white hot burst of a lightning strike, and like a madman, he wants to feel it in his veins. 

Lightning does not strike twice, Atsumu knows, but Tobio might.

Tobio is a hissing effulgence of beauty, and Atsumu wants to hold him in his hands; he wants to reach towards the heavens and snatch the thunderbolt from Zeus’ very grasp. Prometheus stole fire for mankind, so why can Atsumu not steal Tobio for himself? Just once more? All he wants is one of those next times they so often promise one another. 

It’s a little ridiculous, he knows, but it was truly a great fuck. Like, heaven-and-earth-shatteringly good. Like, sheet-lightning-blindingly good. 

So when Tobio turns over to face him to say, "Okay, let's do it." It feels like a hit of three hundred million volts. 

His splayed fingers are flat against the bones of Tobio’s hand, ever so slowly tracing lines, elbow to wrist to knuckle and back. The man in question hums, soft and content, a weariness peeking from amongst the clouds of his demeanour, and Atsumu brings his hand up, squeezing Tobio’s bicep as if to rouse him. When that does not work, he knocks his elbow against his side.

“Yer not asleep are ya? Hm, Tobes?” 

Tobio cracks open an eye, thunderstorm blue, and scowls but there is no heat to it. Cold fire. Electricity. That’s what Tobio is with him. 

“Please don’t elbow me, Atsumu-san.”

“ Tch .” Atsumu shifts to sit up, reaching over to flick the object of his annoyances between the brows, right on that perpetual crease of theirs, “Don’t say please even once when ya’ wanna fuck but the second we’re done yer on yer best behaviour—brat.” 

“I didn’t need to say please, you were ready to give it to me anyway.” 

Atsumu’s jaw drops. That’s practically Tobio-speak for ‘filthy desperate slut’. The smug little smirk on his face only seems to add to that translation. He slams a pillow against his back. How dare he, the cheeky fuckin’ bastard. 

“Hospitality just expired. I want yer clothes on and yer ass out my door.” Atsumu pushes at his back, secretly delighting in the feel of cool skin and firm muscles beneath his palms, “Go on! Move it, ya lazy shit. Goody-two-shoes my fuckin’ ass.” 

Tobio just laughs. It’s a deep, rich thing. Crushed velvet and rumbling thunder. The pitter-patter of rain on a windowsill. The sound goes straight to his dick, a molten-hot desire stirring low in his stomach. It doesn’t help that he follows it up by tracing his fingers over the lines of his tattoo, hot against the thin skin of his collarbone. 

Oh, he’s fucked, isn’t he?

“What?” Tobio murmurs, and Atsumu realises that he’s been staring for too long. Not that it stops him. He only stares harder, lidded-eyes dragging up the length of Tobio, the curve of his spine, with a treacle-like speed. Slow and sweet and appreciative.

Tobio is just so pretty; it’s unfair. He blinks slowly, trying to ignore the dryness of his mouth, the hollow ache of his jaw, and failing miserably at it. 

“Tobio-kun,” he mutters, elongating the syllables of his name ever so sweetly, “will you lemme blow you?”

The younger man stiffens all over and for a moment, Atsumu thinks he’s about to get shut down. But then Tobio’s rolling onto his back, eyes dark and hazy, stormy-grey, promising destruction. Atsumu knees between his legs and eagerly swallows him down, pleased to hear the barrage of desperate noises he draws from the man below him. 

After, when he’s wiping the wetness from his mouth with the back of his hand, fucked out and sleepy from the post-orgasm haze coaxed by Tobio’s warm palm, Tobio grasps him by the wrist, bringing him down until they are flush, skin-to-skin, and whispers, his voice like a gentle dying breeze, “I’ve never done this before. Not long term. Not with someone I know.”

And Atsumu hasn’t either, not with someone he’s close to, like Tobio. But they’ll figure it out, he tells Tobio this, watches the younger boy nod, trusting and accepting. 

“You’re probably right, we’re just too good at it to stop at one time,” he says, snuggling under the blanket.

Atsumu snorts, watching as Tobio turns onto his side and lets out a soft yawn, the fatigue so obvious in his blood-shot eyes. It makes Atsumu’s chest feel precariously soft and mushy, which is funny because those are two words no one would ever use to describe him.

“G’night Tobio-kun.”

The younger setter’s breathing has already deepened, however, his eyes closed and his chest rising and falling steadily. Atsumu watches him for a moment, a heat spreading in his chest; he’s not sure when exactly he falls asleep, just knows it’s the best he’s slept in a long while. 

❧

The morning comes and Atsumu wakes to find Tobio not in bed with him, but his disappointment is only momentary because he hears the soft patter of the running shower. He knocks on the door and suggests they get some breakfast and make some ground rules, just so they know how to act, but then Tobio steps out, dripping from head to toe, fluffy towel wrapped haphazardly around his waist, and all other thoughts drop from Atsumu’s mind like he wants that towel to do. 

They end up frantically fucking against the dresser, Tobio’s morning voice low and raspy and raw, his moans exquisite, his thighs flexing around Atsumu’s waist as he holds them up. 

They don’t end up setting any rules at all, and then Tobio leaves after another shower. 

Atsumu thinks this should concern him more than it does, but they have never been in the habit of discussing things before doing them, or after doing them, so he isn’t as phased as might’ve been otherwise. 

Tobio and him are creatures of action, not debilitating thought.

❧

“And where were you last night?” Inunaki asks him later that day when he runs into him in the hotel lobby, both of them in the process of checking out.

“Oh, y’know, I was too tired for drinks, so I thought I’d come back ‘n sleep the loss off.” 

Inunaki gives him a disbelieving look, eyes bright with amusement as he leans in, “ Riiiiight , and that wasn’t the Adlers' setter that I saw stumbling out of your room this morning.” 

Atsumu flushes from the tips of ears right down to his toes, which only serves to make the libero laugh heartily. At least the off season is about to begin so he’ll be free from any immediate teasing. 

A playful wink, “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.” 

He and Tobio will just have to be more careful, he cannot imagine a whole season of this. 

❧

 

ATSUMU:

im in tokyo this weekend

ATSUMU:

are u free on saturday?

TOBIO:

I'll be free.

ATSUMU:

hehe always free to see me aren't ya

TOBIO:

I don't get it. Would you rather I make other plans?

ATSUMU:

NO! too late. ur hanging with me this weekend

TOBIO:

Okay.

ATSUMU:

at least try to sound excited tobio-kun

TOBIO:

Okay.

[thumbs up emoji]

TOBIO:

Better?

ATSUMU:

...better

 

❧

Tobio, Atsumu thinks, kisses like a force of nature. 

Unrestrained, uncontainable. Howling gales and thundering shadows, the firm press of his soft mouth to Atsumu’s lips like the first drops of rain in a storm. A confounding cyclone of contradiction—gentle, but firm; shy, but sure of himself; polite, but a dirty tease. 

He touches Atsumu and it is as though he’s playing sparks on his bare skin, an incandescent heat built between them, a demanding, thankless proclivity for more, more, more. He holds Atsumu by the collar of his t-shirt, presses him against his living room wall, clumsily meshing their mouths together and kissing until their lungs cannot take anymore, saliva-slick lips reluctantly pulling back, the cold winter burn of their chests doing nothing to stop Tobio from pulling demandingly at his shirt— 

“Off, Atsumu-san. Take it off .”

And Atsumu laughs at how much Tobio needs it, but he does as he asks, because he thinks he needs it just as bad. Thinks the raging winds of desire encircling them are just as much his as they are Tobio’s. 

Oh, and in the dark of his bedroom, Tobio is wondrous. Too fucking good. A hurricane, not a boy. Settled between Atsumu’s legs as if it was they weren’t the eye of the storm, but rather the storm itself. 

Later, when they’re done and Atsumu’s shrugging his clothing back on, Tobio smiles at him from where he’s wrapped up in his sheets on the bed. And Atsumu instantly loses his train of thought, too taken aback by the sight of him: moonlight and mercury, silver dust rising in the dark night.

Tobio, Atsumu thinks, is completely and utterly beautiful. 

❧

They fuck twice more when he’s in Tokyo. He realises Tobio likes being called good in bed, though pretends he doesn’t. And when he’s inside Tobio, both of them desperately chasing their pleasure, he wonders why the hell they haven’t been doing this since the day they met.

When he relays this thought to Tobio, he laughs, mellifluous and sweet.

“You were mean, Atsumu-san, that’s why.”

“I’m still mean,” he says, aware that he’s pouting and even more aware that Osamu would gag if he saw him like this, pulling such a ridiculous face. 

Tobio shakes his head, eyes soft, not a torrent of brooding and intensity, but a gentle, lulled river. The sun over a lake on a summer’s day.

“No,” he whispers, “I think you're pretty nice.”

Atsumu doesn’t think anyone has actually ever said that to him before. 

He’s been called hot, and cruel, and a pig, and conceited, a good time, over-confident, rude, talented, sexy, stupid, fun, insane, mean as all hell and a downright bastard. But not… nice . Not on his own. Not by someone like Tobio. 

❧

Osamu tells him that he looks different when he sees him after his trip. Whatever the fuck that means. 

Atsumu tries not to think about the scratches and bruises all over his body, the hickey sucked into the soft flesh of his pec, right over his heart. Mind flashing uncomfortably to the memory of Tobio’s open mouth, his urging cries—more, more, more, please, please, please. Not a thought he wants to have at lunch with his brother. 

But still, later that night, when gets ready for bed, he thinks about what Osamu said; stares at himself in the mirror and tries to discern if he truly looks any different to before. He cannot figure it out, but when he looks out the window, he does think the stars don’t look how they used to. Nor does the sun the next morning, or the moon the night after. 

Nothing feels like it did before, and he cannot figure out why.

❧

 

TOBIO:

[IMAGE]

I think these are yours.

ATSUMU:

my sunglasses !!

ATSUMU: 

ughhhhhh those were my favourite ones :/

TOBIO:

I’ll look after them for you. 

ATSUMU:

my knight in shining armour <3

ATSUMU:

you have very nice fingers btw tobi-kun

TOBIO:

Thank you.

ATSUMU:

i miss getting to put them in my mouth :/

TOBIO:

???

TOBIO:

You did that two days ago.

 

TOBIO:

Your oral fixation is getting concerning Miya-san.

ATSUMU:

yea well your hand kink is pretty damn concerning too

 

TOBIO:

 I don’t have a hand kink.

ATSUMU:

sure and im a fairy princess

 

❧

Atsumu likes it when Tobio pulls his hair, likes the little whine that he lets out when he bites into the junction of his neck and shoulder, likes the bleary, desperate look he gets in his eyes when Atsumu denies him a kiss. He likes that Tobio is so sensitive, likes the way he squeals and squeezes Atsumu when he blows on his spit-wet nipples. Likes the scratches he gets in return.

He likes that Tobio is as far from a pillow princess as possible. Loves that he is demanding and competitive and unstoppable. Unafraid to destroy—not a goody-goody, not a meek little push over. Never that. 

❧

ATSUMU:

you comin’ to the start of season party?

TOBIO:

Yes, I’ll be there. 

TOBIO:

Will you?

ATSUMU:

awwww is someone impatient to see me

TOBIO:

You wish. 

 

❧

Maybe it’s risky, what they’re doing. It’s certainly stupid, but Atsumu’s good with stupid. Osamu’s always said he’s the dumber one out of the two of them. Maybe this is proving him right, but at the moment, he cannot find it in himself to care. 

Tobio tasted like champagne when he kissed him, dragging him into a bathroom stall whilst the party still went on outside. He mumbled some perfunctory resistance about how they really shouldn’t be doing this, but had kissed Atsumu with all the strength and wildness of a squall and locked the door behind him so that was that, he guessed. 

Now, Atsumu is risking ruining his nice slacks, on his knees on the dirty stall floor with Tobio’s dick in his mouth. Tears sting in his eyes, but he maintains eye contact, enraptured by the way pleasure cracked across the perfect plains of Tobio’s face, blissful. 

He was red in the face, desperate, completely undone. Teeth clenched to hold back the pathetic sounds Atsumu could kill to hear right now. His feverish eyes, his raw-rubbed mouth, the way it dropped open on an exquisite mewl before he curled his fingers into it, biting down like a dog would a bone. 

And it is madness, but Atsumu is jealous of Tobio’s mouth, so lucky to receive the weight of his lithe fingers. But he’s also jealous of his hand, because it should be his fingers hooked over the pearls of Tobio’s teeth. If he could do everything all at once, he would. 

All he can actually do, however, is keep up his pace, try not to gag. Fawn over the tears clinging to Tobio’s lashes like dew drops on a lily petal. 

They’ve been at it for a while now, and he can tell Tobio is about to come apart. He knows it from the way his brows crease and his bottom lip trembles, hips growing so frantic in their rhythm that he has to hold them down. But it is the sound of the bathroom door swinging open and footsteps on the tile that finally breaks dear, sweet Tobio.

Tobio hisses and bites down hard on his fist, trying not to make any noise which is instantly undercut by the thud of his head against the wall. Atsumu just swallows, tries not to laugh when he sits back, because god, he was so, so wrong about Tobio. 

They’re in the stall right at the end, so they wait out the other guy, and then Tobio reaches for Atsumu’s belt, but the older setter pushes his hand away. 

“Later,” he whispers. 

They quietly make themselves presentable again, stepping out to wash their hands, and in Atsumu’s case, rinse. 

“That was so stupid,” Tobio bemoans, still looking fucked out and beautiful. 

Atsumu’s hair is basically a bird’s nest, completely unsalvageable, but he tries his best. “You liked it.”

Tobio glares at him, but he doesn’t deny it, and that, too, is delightful. It grows in his chest like molten lava, this weird, inexplicable joy; it makes him want to laugh, to sing, to pepper Tobio’s face with kisses. 

“You liked it baby,” he says, pushing into Tobio’s space so he can knock their foreheads together. 

He jerks his chin up at him, silently demanding a kiss, pleased by the hazy look in Tobio’s eyes as they dropped to his lips. The dazed hunger he wore so openly; ineffable desire, devoid of shame and self-consciousness. Of course Tobio does not deny him, he never does, planting a chaste but vigorous kiss on his lips. 

“Let’s go to my hotel,” he hums, their lips still touching, breath coming in time together. “Please, Atsumu-san?”

As if Atsumu would ever say no. 

Chapter Text

Osaka is pretty in the summer. Muggy, oppressive air, trapped between the ancient, thick bricks that forge the city, paired with the bright, searing sunshine, so much hotter than Tokyo. The streets are thick with people, tourists and locals alike, spilling out in throngs that no doubt make up for the heat that any brief smog-scented breeze attempts to do away with.

Tobio can see why Miwa likes the city. The aesthetic of it, winsome wonders of wisteria and hydrangeas, the spring sakura giving way to lotus and sunflowers. The buzzing energy in the air seems physical, a thing you can touch and taste. It is far from Miyagi too, a long latitude to fit her restless spirit. 

“I’m enjoying it,” Miwa says, pausing to take a long sip of her ice coffee. “The new company’s good, the gigs are steady, the perks are nice and the models are, well, models.”

She looks different. Lighter somehow. Free. 

Her hair is cropped to her shoulders now, the bangs pulled back neatly, framing her face in a way that feels deliberate but effortless, like all things with her. He remembers when she first sent the photo of the cut: spontaneous, slightly blurry, her nose scrunched in mock regret, strands of anthracite hair scattered across the sink like shorn wool off the back of sheep.

He remembers the warmth of the phone in his hand as he’d stared, something unnameable twisting in his chest. A few short texts back and forth—him, dry; her, teasing—ended with an emoji he'd regretted immediately for being too flat.

There’d been no time to add more, however, because he had been in Atsumu’s hotel room, and the older setter had rolled over, half-buried in the sheets, arm reaching lazily to wrap around Tobio’s waist in his sleep. Cheek smushed to the bare skin of Tobio’s shoulder, his features sourly squinting against the jarring white-light of Tobio’s phone screen. He hadn’t wanted to wake him, so put it away, yawning softly.

Now, seeing it in person, the haircut suits her more than he’d imagined. It carves definition into her face, draws attention to her jawline, her eyes—still sharp, still constantly scanning. There’s a kind of ease to her now, something unburdened, and it startles him, because he’d never realised there was a burden before. To him, Miwa could carry the world on her shoulders, which is why it had hurt so bad when she had left and not looked back. 

He makes a face, remembering the conversation at hand, “And that means?”

“Pretty. Entitled. Lovely canvases to work my magic on.”

“You say that like you’re a witch.”

Miwa shrugs, grinning over the rim of her cup. “Aren’t I?”

They’re walking arm in arm down a bustling food street, weaving through vines of tourists munching on snacks, surrounded by sit-in restaurants with window views of lunch-time rush. A man collides with Miwa’s shoulder and she doesn’t even flinch, though Tobio’s skin itches even at the idea of such proximity in this heat. It is suffocating, this overgrown sprawling mess of hordes, but he supposes, it is also spirited. Alive. A garden, abloom. 

Miwa has been living here for almost four years now, and he can tell that she still loves it. There’s a glint in her eyes, dew-drop shiny. The city hums behind her: traffic, chatter, the faint clatter of kitchenware from the surrounding food stalls, cafes, and restaurants. It suits her, he thinks. All this motion and curated chaos. But he also knows she’ll want to leave again. That’s just who she is: always searching for something better, something new. An ever-growing bushel of petunias—resilient, loving—rootless, except for maybe him. Sometimes.

“You wanna grab some food?” She suggests, listing off a bunch of restaurants Tobio has never heard of, nor cares for. And maybe that’s obvious on his face because she stops abruptly, lips coming up into the Kageyama-Patented-Scowl-Pout as Hinata likes to call it, “Or you can tell me something you do like?”

“Um. Pork curry.”

It’s enough to make her laugh, fondness in her eyes. “My baby brother,” she sighs, “forever unchanging.”

And she means it lovingly, she always does, but something about it settles wrong. Like a brick out of place in an otherwise perfect wall. A withering rose tucked into the heart of a blooming bouquet. He feels it in his chest: a strange twist, unfamiliar and unwelcome. The easy rhythm of their conversation falters for a moment, and the hum of the city around them seems to grow louder, pressing in.

Unchanging. The word sits heavy on him. He wants to believe it’s a kind of strength, a quiet steadiness. But the truth feels more complicated, because all he can see is Miwa’s empty bedroom back in Miyagi. The dust collecting thick on her emptied shelves. Him, sitting by the phone, waiting for it to ring. He tries not to frown, because he doesn't blame his sister for leaving, but at the same time, how can she say that, when she was not there for the most important years? 

(Much like the parents she refuses to speak to, though he doesn't blame her for that either).

Because he has changed, but she hadn’t seen the insecure creature that he became after Kitagawa Daiichi. She hasn’t seen what Karasuno has done, what the miracle of Hinata’s friendship has achieved, and he supposes most of it is because he has never told her. Not really.  

And it’s silly, but at that moment Tobio thinks, rather unexpectedly, of Atsumu. He thinks of sun-spun hair against the dark blue of his bedsheets, of his own fingers running through it like roots seeking soil, the dark brown of his undercut like a freshly-shorn field against his knuckles. The rose-buds of Atsumu’s pink mouth parting on laughter, the coarse snicker of it covered in a calyx of indulgence: “Yer not so sweet anymore, Tobio-kun. I remember ya’ being all polite ‘n shit; when’d you get so mean?”

He remembers shaking his head, rolling his eyes, “I’ve always been like this, Atsumu-san. You were just blind.”

“Nah,” the older boy rolled over, the two of them eye to eye, “yer different to how you used to be. More sure.”

Tobio had bristled under the heat of Atsumu’s gaze, the anemone-born burn of it. White chrysanthemums blooming on his lips, bloodless from how tightly he pressed them together. 

“The same,” Atsumu continued, lips brushing against Tobio’s collar, “but so different.” All twenty nine pearls on display in a sleazy grin, the knock of Atsumu’s nose under his jaw, a kiss smushed against the flutter of his pulse: “Guess I’m rubbing off on ya’.”

❧

The pair of them decide they’re not hungry enough for a full meal, and Miwa asks if Tobio still likes onigiri, which of course he does. She tells him she knows a good place for it around here and Tobio doesn’t question it, follows her there in silence, listening to her sing the restaurant’s praises. 

Of course that is how he ends up across the counter from Miya Osamu.

“Oh hey, Tobio-kun,” Osamu greets, looking a little surprised, hat slung low over his grey-slate eyes, a cordial smile plastered on his lips. “It’s nice to see you here again.” 

A few months ago, Tobio would never be able to tell him apart from his twin, not unless they were speaking, but it shocks him now that he can actually see the differences in their faces without even thinking about it. Other than the obvious yellow petal bloom of Atsumu’s hair, their eyes are different. Absalon tulips against concrete. Atsumu’s eyes are warmer, his smile sharper in every way. Everything about him, high contrast. Sprawling and alive like his city, where Osamu is cool, detached. An out of focus image to Tobio even when he’s standing right in front of him.

“Hello Osamu-san, I can see the business is thriving.” 

It’s true. From where Tobio and Miwa sit on the bar stools by the counter, the small shop buzzes with life. The back corner table is nearly full, and a steady stream of customers moves in and out, laughter and chatter mingling with the clatter of dishes. Osamu shrugs, modest but clearly pleased, nodding toward the window.

“Nice view helps,” he says simply, but Tobio swears he spies something sharp and proud in his eyes, the Atsumu in him suddenly very clear. Then, he’s quickly taking their order before turning back to his work, and it's just Tobio and Miwa again.

Miwa raises an eyebrow.

“What?” He says defensively. 

“You’ve been here before?” she asks, voice curious.

Tobio shrugs, eyes fixed on the countertop, the memory of Atsumu’s animated voice filling his ears. Grinning, loud, tugging him through the door like he belonged there. “Yeah. A few times, I think. I came when it first opened, and... again last time I was in town for a match. You remember? That night we had dinner?”

“Okayyyy,” Miwa draws the word out, tapping her fingers against the lacquered counter, an eyebrow raised. “You could’ve just said. I rambled for so long on our way here.”

“I didn’t realise we were coming here.”

“There’s like a million signs!”

“I wasn’t looking at them.” He pouts, half-apology, half-deflection. “Besides, I didn’t think it mattered.”

“It doesn’t,” she says, then adds with a sly smile her eyes cutting to Osamu, “unless it does.” He glances at her, frowning slightly at whatever the hell she’s getting at. But she just grins, letting the silence sit between them, comfortably sharp.

Their order arrives, neatly wrapped and warm to the touch. They thank Osamu and eat in silence for a while, the kind that isn’t awkward, but rather quite peaceful. Miwa chews thoughtfully, eyes occasionally drifting to the people moving in and out of the shop. Tobio focuses on his onigiri, letting the familiar flavors ground him—salt and rice and something simpler beneath it all. A quiet kind of comfort. 

He thinks, fleetingly, of sitting at the dinner table with her and their grandfather. The memory comes unbidden: dim light, clinking dishes, the scrape of chopsticks against ceramic. Neither of them were particularly talkative, but their grandfather had a way of pulling stories out of them like teeth, all while sneaking extra food onto Miwa’s plate when she wasn't paying attention. Tobio sitting between them, quiet and content in a way he rarely let himself be.

He wonders, for a moment, if that version of them still exists somewhere. Or if it only lives in that memory, framed by the scent of curry and the steady rhythm of rain on the windowpane.

Miwa takes another bite, her foot tapping softly beneath the counter. She doesn’t say anything, but her presence feels the same as it did back then. Familiar, grounding, a tether to a home that no longer exists in the same way. Tobio finishes his onigiri and wipes his fingers clean, the past settling somewhere low and quiet in his chest.

There’s a crash from somewhere in the kitchen, sharp and sudden, and it startles Tobio out of his thoughts. His posture straightens instinctively, gaze snapping toward the source.

He catches just a flicker of Osamu’s face as the sound echoes through the small shop. His expression sours instantly: jaw tight, eyes closing briefly like he’s summoning patience from somewhere deep inside. It's an expression that feels oddly familiar.

Then, unmistakably, that voice. Muffled at first, but drawing nearer with every word, loud and unapologetic.

“Samu! I dropped the flour—there’s like, flour everywhere, and the mop’s in the back, and also? Why is everything so slippery in there?!”

Miwa makes a scathing comment about the noise under her breath, sharp like she can be from time to time. Tobio’s not sure why he stops breathing. 

A moment later, the kitchen door swings open with a loud clatter, and there he is: sunlight-blond, chaotic as ever, with a smear of flour on one cheek and more of it dusting the front of his black apron like ghosted fingerprints, crushed yarrow patterns. His eyes are bright, mouth curled in that familiar, crooked grin, like he’s just done something stupid and he’s entirely unapologetic for it. 

Atsumu. Full volume, full presence.

Their eyes lock, and Atsumu noticeably stills, blinks twice in quick succession, like a cartoon character caught mid-sprint over a cliff, realisation catching up just a half-second too late. His grin falters, not vanishing entirely, but twitching at the edges. Tightening ever so slightly. 

He recovers quickly though, he always does. “Well, well, well. Fancy seein’ you here, Tobio-kun.”

At this, Osamu just sighs, turning back towards the kitchen where Atsumu emerged from, muttering not to mess anything up until he’s back. Atsumu scowls childishly but doesn’t argue, his eyes falling back before long.

“Hello, Atsumu-san,” Tobio says, keeping his face steady, blank, maybe, but he can feel the heat climbing the back of his neck, a wildfire. He wishes he hadn’t inhaled his onigiri, just so he had something to do with himself other than stare like a lost puppy. 

Tobio swallows hard. Wills himself not to flush. His heartbeat jumps to the base of his throat, however, wedging there like a stubborn tangle of wildflowers, refusing to wilt, refusing to be ignored. His hands, usually steady, suddenly feel too visible on the counter, too deliberate. He doesn’t know why he’s reacting like this.

Atsumu is just a friend.

Nothing’s changed. Not really.

Except—

They’ve seen each other naked now more times than Tobio cares to admit; he knows what Atsumu’s mouth tastes like. How he kisses when he’s half-asleep and soft-spoken, the urgency of it, how he bites when he wants to feel something real. How his eyes roll back when Tobio pulls on his hair, hard and unforgiving. The feel of his warm mouth against the pads of his fingers, the press of his wet tongue. The face he makes when he comes, the sound that accompanies it. Wild, dying, stuffed into the crook of Tobio’s neck with a kiss. 

And really, none of that is a problem. It’s sort of perfect, actually. 

But Miwa is sitting beside him, sharp-eyed and unblinking, and Tobio hadn’t planned on seeing Atsumu again until later. After he and his sister parted ways and the clean, separate compartments of his life could click back into place.

Before Tobio can continue, Atsumu glances at Miwa for the first time, eyes flicking to her then back. “Sorry,” he says, a bit more polite, the teasing nature of his drawl dialled back, but still unmistakably him. Casual, a little abrupt . “Didn’t know you brought company.” 

“No, don’t worry.” Tobio shifts in his seat. “This is my sister, Miwa. Neesan, this is—”

“Miya Atsumu,” she says, “setter for the Jackals. I’m aware.” Her voice is terribly dry, like she already doesn’t like him. 

Atsumu, to his credit, doesn't seem to be bothered by this fact, or perhaps he’s just too covered in flour to register the subtle hostility. “Oh,” he says, eyes lighting up, “are you a fan?”

Tobio closes his eyes briefly. Wrong thing to say.

Miwa gives Atsumu a smile that is more teeth than warmth. “Not really.” She says, and then returns to her food.

The older setter flounders, beetroot red. Tobio had forgotten how blunt his sister could be, how quickly she decided whether she liked someone or not. He couldn’t even figure out what Atsumu had done to warrant her instant disapproval. His hair wasn’t fried yellow anymore, which really would’ve set Miwa off, and he didn’t say anything she would find unfathomably stupid or boorish, he hadn’t even sworn yet. 

Atsumu clears his throat, clearly thrown. “Right. Well. It’s nice to meet ya anyway.”

Miwa hums noncommittally, not looking up.

Tobio stares down at his now-empty plate, wishing the ground would crack open and swallow him whole. This was already going badly, and he’s not even sure what “this” is supposed to be.

“I didn’t know you had a sister,” Atsumu says, recovering, sliding his attention back to Tobio with something unreadable in his expression. “Thought you were an only child.”

“She’s older,” Tobio mutters, like that explains everything. 

Atsumu makes a face suggesting it does. 

Tobio clears his throat, trying to cut through the secondhand embarrassment. “Do you work here often?”

Atsumu grimaces, “Does it look like I do?”

Miwa, intent on being mean, snorts, but, mercifully, does not say anything.

“Nah,” Atsumu continues, dragging a rag across his floured hands without looking down. “Just helpin’ Samu out. Figured I’d come ruin his kitchen real quick.”

He leans one elbow against the counter, casual, but his body is angled ever so slightly toward Tobio in a way that feels deliberate. Like muscle memory. Like habit.

“Yes, well,” Tobio says, eyes steady on the smudge of flour near Atsumu’s jaw, “it looks like Osamu-san won’t be enlisting your help again.” He is pleased by the pouty expression Atsumu makes in turn, his eyes flashing playfully.

“Rude, Tobio-kun.”

The mock-hurt in his voice makes Tobio smile; he can feel the strained pull of it in his face as he shakes his head. 

Atsumu’s eyes flick up, catching Tobio’s, and for a second the room feels smaller. Warmer. The mess, the noise, even Miwa—all of it somehow fades just a little into the background. Tobio’s mouth goes dry, a barren patch of earth deprived of rainfall. Shrinking violet in the sun, vines of pansies and mimulus growing in his chest. 

“I was going to text you later,” he says, mildly apologetic. “See if you were free?”

Atsumu hums, soft, like he’s considering that. “You still can,” he says, voice low and easy. “I’ll pretend it’s a surprise.”

Tobio huffs out something too quiet to be a laugh. The flour on Atsumu’s face is still there, just at the edge of his jaw, catching the light like a careless secret. Dandelion seeds in the wind. 

He clears his throat, the noise barely a scrape. “You’ve got…flour.”

Atsumu smirks. “Everywhere?”

“Just—” Tobio reaches up before he thinks better of it, brushing his thumb lightly across the smudge near Atsumu’s jaw. His skin is warm. The flour clings for a second, then lifts.

Knowing Atsumu, Tobio expects some kind of comment. A smirk, maybe. A dig about how domestic this is, or a joke he’ll pretend not to find funny. Something loud, offhanded, too familiar. Something befitting his terrible, awful, no-good personality that Tobio not-so-secretly has come to enjoy.

But Atsumu just looks at him, quiet, eyes half-lidded, and says nothing.

Tobio lets his hand drop.

The space between them feels oddly charged, like the moment after a serve. Still air, breath suspended, anticipation before something starts.

It’s the sudden and incessant buzzing of Miwa’s phone that shatters the moment. The screen lights up, face-up on the table, vibrating against the wood with an annoying sort of urgency.

His sister mutters something under her breath, sharp and irritable, then lifts her gaze, just for a moment, her eyes flicking between the two of them. Not prying, not accusatory. Just… noticing.

Still, Tobio feels the back of his neck prickle.

Miwa answers on the third ring, tucking the phone between her shoulder and cheek as she fishes some bills from her wallet. She places them on the counter, then murmurs, “Don’t be too long,” before turning on her heel and walking out the restaurant without another word.

The door swings shut behind her with a soft thud.

For a moment, the two of them just watch her go.

Then Atsumu shifts, his voice low and almost amused. “Soooooo, she’s intense.”

“She’s just direct,” he replies, shrugging.

“No, you’re direct, she’s surgical.”

Tobio snorts before he can stop himself. “She didn’t even say anything.”

“She didn’t have to. Pretty sure I got fully disassembled by her eyes alone.” He sounds petulant, like a kicked puppy, or a child who didn’t get dessert. Tobio bites down his laughter.

“She’s like that with everyone.”

Atsumu gives him a skeptical look, “She glared at me like I’d killed her puppy.”

“Okay,” Tobio concedes, “she’s like that with people she doesn’t know.”

“Family trait?”

“Only when it comes to annoying people.”

Predictably, Atsumu puts a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. “Unbelievable. I come in here, provide some entertainment, destroy a kitchen with flair, and this is the thanks I get?”

“You’re lucky Osamu-san hasn’t come back out yet.”

Atsumu shivers dramatically, before shifting his weight, his fingers tapping the counter lightly. “Your sister’s sharp, though,” he says, more thoughtful now. “Probably didn’t like my flirting.”

Tobio doesn’t say anything right away. He pulls out his phone, flicking the screen to life like it’ll buy him time. He chews his lip, “She’s protective of me. She likes to vet people.”

“Did I pass?” 

Tobio finally looks up, one eyebrow raised. “What do you think?”

Atsumu grins, all teeth. “I think she’s praying for my swift and silent departure.”

Tobio snorts, “Yeah, probably.” He looks back down at his phone, but the screen’s already gone dark again. He doesn’t turn it on this time.

The restaurant feels quieter now. Not silent, there’s still the low hum of the fridge, the occasional clatter from the kitchen, but the lunch time rush is long finished and Miwa’s absence leaves a strange weight behind, like the air hasn’t quite settled after she carved through it.

Tobio’s fingers drum once against the countertop. Atsumu’s presence is always loud, even when he’s not talking. There’s something about the way he leans into a space like he owns it, like he expects the world to bend around him, shift to make room. Miwa, on the other hand, doesn’t lean. She cuts. 

Tobio is not much like either of them in that regard, off the court at least. He is content with just existing, so long as he gets to keep playing, to enjoy himself. 

There’s another noise from the kitchen, the muffled sound of Osamu cursing. Atsumu winces, then rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. 

“I should probably go help him,” he mutters, not quite moving yet.

“Yeah,” Tobio nods, thinking of Miwa impatiently tapping the heel of one pump on the concrete like a ticking clock, “I need to get going too.”

Atsumu shifts, a little hesitation in the way he lingers. “Text me later?”

Tobio doesn’t answer, just tilts his phone toward Atsumu so he can see the draft already open under his contact. Only one word sits there, tentative and unassuming: Hi.

Atsumu laughs, loud and unmistakably him. It rings through the room like sunlight catching glass, brighter than the yellowest sunset. He mutters something under his breath about Tobio being a damn weirdo, but it’s not mean. Rather, he sounds like he does right before he pulls Tobio in for a kiss, like he does when he’s teasing him on the court between serves, like he does when he gloats after winning a match. 

Tobio doesn’t argue. Just slips the phone back into his pocket, the screen still glowing faintly. There’s no rush to hit send. Not yet.

“Later,” Atsumu says, one hand already pushing through the swinging kitchen door.

“Yeah. Later.”

Tobio watches him go, the easy, practiced way Atsumu walks like he’s never second-guessed a step in his life. There's something theatrical about it, like he's always half-aware of being watched, even when he’s pretending not to be. The kitchen door swings behind him with a creak and a dull thump, the sounds of clanging metal and Osamu’s frustration waiting on the other side.

He stays there for a second longer. Then he gets up, hands in his pockets, and heads for the door. 

Outside, the air is still thick with humidity, the sun marigold-bright. He spots Miwa across the street, leaning against a lamp-post just outside another shop. 

She raises an eyebrow as he approaches. “Took you long enough.”

He shrugs, doesn’t know what to say.

She watches him as she takes his arm in his again, leading them away. Then, she says, “He’s loud.”

“Yeah.”

“But you stayed.”

Tobio glances at her. “Yeah,” he says again, quieter this time. “We’re friends.”

Miwa hums, and doesn’t bring Atsumu up again, but there’s something in the way she looks at him with her shrewd, coal-dark eyes. Curious, sharp, like she’s trying to figure something out. She doesn’t press, doesn’t prod. Just loops her arm through his a little tighter, and then asks where they should go next. 

❧

TOBIO:

Hi.

TOBIO:

Are you free?

ATSUMU:

yea 

ATSUMU:

you eaten dinner yet?

❧

Tobio ends up at Atsumu’s apartment not half an hour later, leaning against the kitchen counter as Atsumu slices vegetables with easy, practiced movements.

The place is warm in a lived-in kind of way, walls full of pictures of Atsumu and Osamu in various stages of adolescence; an older woman who must be their mother, smiling with the same unmistakable sharpness in her eye; their friends from high school, old teammates in the black jerseys and red zippers of Inarizaki that Tobio remembers well. By the entrance, there was a rack of messily arranged shoes, threatening collapse, and Tobio’s half-empty glass of wine sits on the table behind him, untouched. The overhead light hums quietly, casting a soft amber glow over everything, and the faint buzz of the extractor fan fills the silence. 

“You really didn’t have to,” Tobio says, feeling a hint of awkward purposelessness. 

Atsumu waves him off, “It’s just food, I needed to eat and so did you.”

“Still, it’s nice of you.”

“Oh I’ll show ya nice later,” Atsumu says, flashing a cheeky grin.

Tobio looks away, ears pink, ignoring the pleased snicker emanating from the older setter. 

He ends up watching the rhythmic motion of the knife, the way Atsumu rocks slightly with each jagged, messy cut, barefoot and entirely at ease in his own space, recounting a winding tale about how he and Osamu first met Aran. It’s domestic in a way that feels oddly intimate. Disarming. There’s no performance here, no swagger. No crowd to impress.

It’s not like how he is on the court. 

There, Atsumu is fire and provocation: bold, fast, and impossible to ignore. Here, he’s something slower. Looser. Still intense, but... softened at the edges. Like the difference between a spotlight and a reading torch left on in someone’s bedroom long after midnight.

Tobio doesn’t know what to make of it. He’s not used to seeing Atsumu like this, stripped of the rhythm of play and competition. The version of Atsumu that is not all motion and momentum, all sharp smiles and sharper serves, built to dominate a court and demand attention.

He supposes he should be, though, they’ve known each other since they were teenagers, have been friends for his entire V-League career so far, orbiting each other through training camps, matches, and post-game interviews. Atsumu has been a near-constant presence throughout his professional career. Reliable, infuriating, undeniable. 

Tobio knows the salt-burn of Atsumu’s sweat on his lips, the heat of his mouth taking him in, the pleasure of the rough calluses of his palm against the most sensitive parts of him. And it is not as though they have not talked outside of sex, they still text mindless thoughts to one another, though that is moreso Atsumu than him. They break down volleyball plays in their chat, get way too technical about it in a way only two setters can. They make stupid bets and inside jokes and know each other in a way he would’ve never have predicted back when he was sixteen. 

But this is still different.

Atsumu, focused, quietly humming to himself as he stirs noodles in a pan that hisses with heat. It feels like something Tobio hasn’t earned yet. Like he’s stumbled into a side of Atsumu that’s rarely offered and never performed.

When Atsumu was in Tokyo last month, he had been in Tobio’s apartment three nights in a row, but they never spent time in his place like this. Granted, he never stayed over and the visits revolved around sex. Efficient, charged, inevitable. The kind that left Tobio wrung out and wired at the same time, head spinning with everything Atsumu gave and refused to take. 

They did other things, of course, talked too. Between rounds, in those brief stretches of stillness when breathing slowed and sweat cooled on skin, before on the night they got drinks, after when they got breakfast on his last day there. But the rhythm within the walls of Tobio’s apartment was always the same: arrive, touch, burn, leave.

This is not that. A different kind of intimacy. One not built on the crash of bodies and the hiss of breath, but on presence. On ease.

And that’s the part Tobio doesn’t know how to navigate. This space. This quiet. This version of Atsumu that isn’t reaching for him, or challenging him, or tearing him apart in the best and worst ways. Just being. 

Though, this is what friends do, isn’t it? Not just conversations in coffee shops and bars, not just teasing texts from afar. Sometimes it’s a closed off affair, cooking together and making idle comments on the Bulgarian volleyball team that they’re supposed to play in two months, as they battle it out against Hungary on Atsumu’s television screen. 

He used to do this with Karasuno. Grab food from Ukai’s corner shop and then retreat to Hinata’s house. Him, Hinata, Yachi, Yamaguchi and Tsukishima, huddled on the floor by the telly, half-focusing on the match, half on the homework he and Hinata needed help with. He just isn't used to it from Atsumu yet. Nor is he used to him cooking. The way Atsumu has always talked about it made it seem like Osamu was the chef, and Atsumu was banned from the kitchen, much like Tobio. 

Atsumu speaks, voice light. “You’re thinkin’ too loud.”

Tobio startles slightly. “What?”

Atsumu doesn’t look over, crushes garlic with the back of a spoon. “You get this look. Like yer thoughts are crowding each other.”

Tobio scowls, but without any heat. “You don’t know what I’m thinking.”

“Duh, I ain’t a psychic,” Atsumu says, finally glancing at him, “but I know yer doin’ it too hard.”

Atsumu doesn't press, just turns back to the pan and stirs. The air smells sharp and a little sweet. He moves with the confidence that Tobio has seen on court, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, hair falling into his eyes in a way that should be annoying but isn’t, apparently. The commentary runs in the background, a dull hum against the soft clatter of utensils and the occasional pop from the stove. The Bulgarian libero is on screen, body taut in a stretch as he just stops the ball from meeting the court. 

“I never thought you’d cook,” Tobio says finally, breaking the silence.

Atsumu snorts without looking up. “Yeah? You thought Osamu did all the work?”

“You made it sound like the kitchen was your enemy.”

“Maybe it was,” Atsumu says, voice lighter now, teasing. “But my Ma always said a guy who couldn’t cook was no good, so I figured if I’m gonna eat it, I might as well make it myself. Don’t you cook?”

A burgeon of cherry-anthurium on his cheeks. Tobio ducks his head, “I can make a few select things.”

“Select like what? Instant noodles?” 

Tobio’s scowl is half-hearted, but he can’t stop the faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I can make a good pork curry.” It is one of the few things outside of volleyball that remind him completely of his grandfather. Though, then again, anything can on the worst of days.

“Oh yeah? We talkin’ homemade or…”

“Homemade,” he says, aware of the defensiveness of his tone, and even more aware of how delighted it makes Atsumu. “It’s good.”

“Alright, I believe you,” Atsumu says, “One day, you’ll have to prove it.”

“Fine,” Tobio huffs. “Next time you’re in Tokyo.”

Atsumu turns off the stove, grins slyly as he comes over to lean against the counter across from him, “I’ll bring wine, you bring the curry.”

Tobio scoffs, trying not to sound even more flustered than he is, “It’s not a date.”

“Didn’t say it was,” Atsumu says easily, raising an eyebrow, smirking. “Just sayin’, I won’t turn down a home-cooked meal or a chance to beat ya at something. Especially if we get to fuck after.”

Tobio’s face flushes deeper but he rolls his eyes, mumbling whatever. ​​Atsumu just chuckles, clearly satisfied, and heads back to the stove to plate the food.

They eat in easy quiet, eyes glued to the television as the match starts to heat up. The commentary fills the space, quick and sharp, punctuated by their noises of frustration and awe, the pair of them chewing and occasionally muttering things like nice dig or he should’ve timed that better.

The stir fry is really nice, packed with colourful vegetables and soft, thin strips of tender beef. Simple, balanced. He tells Atsumu this and watches the smugness break out on his face, eager as always to show off. 

Once they finish, they clean the dishes and tidy up together without much fuss. Atsumu hums under his breath, slipping into the familiar rhythm of small chores, and Tobio finds himself oddly content just being there, sharing the quiet, the mess, the moment. It reminds him a little of his childhood, the early years when the house had him and Miwa and their grandfather in it. How they used to do everything together, without needing words or plans, just moving in sync like it was second nature.

He thinks of his sister somewhere else in this city, out with a group of her co-workers, and wonders if she, too, thinks of those days as fondly as he does. 

❧

Naturally, he and Atsumu end up in bed together. The benefits part of their friends with benefits arrangement. 

Two willows curling into one another, warm flesh flooded with lust like flowers abloom with blood. Pyretic embraces against the linen of Atsumu’s sheets, snow-white but still the perfect soil for them to blossom: Tobio on his stomach, Atsumu plastered to his back, their necks straining to kiss messily all the while. Thorn-sharp teeth in supple tissue, pulposus, like summer fruit left in the sun, the moans in turn, just as sweet. Pomegranate pits formed with Atsumu’s mouth, soothed by his tongue, leaving a path of purple poppy-marrow down his neck, his spine; the hush of his voice against Tobio’s ear, like a match to paper. 

Atsumu was right about their chemistry, their compatibility, at least in this regard. It’s good, the kind of good that lingers under the skin long after the touch is gone.

Tobio turns his face into the pillow, breath shaky, not from exertion anymore, but from the aftershock. The quiet weight of being held like this, of Atsumu’s breath still ghosting over the nape of his neck like it belongs there.

They don’t talk. They never do right after, not until they get up to dress. Just breathe. Recalibrate.

Atsumu’s hand rests low on his hip, thumb brushing lazy, absent circles into sweat-slick skin. It’s casual, like everything between them is supposed to be, but Tobio feels it too much anyway. Sometimes, between the easy friendship part of their relationship, and the brilliant sex, his mind wires get a little crossed. It doesn’t help that Atsumu is flirtatious to his core, naturally a tease, nor does it help that Tobio is socially dense. 

He closes his eyes. Tells himself it’s fine. And really, it is. They’re friends. Friends who do this sometimes. And that’s fine. It’s just a little hard to think clearly when they’re both still naked and pressed together. 

“Mhm, Atsumu-san, you’re crushing me,” he mumbles into the pillow, voice low and rough-edged from breathlessness.

Atsumu hums, unfazed, even a little smug, “You weren’t complaining ten minutes ago.”

“Well ten minutes ago you weren’t crushing me.”

Atsumu laughs, breath puffing hot against his neck, but he rolls off him, their arms still pressed together where they lay. Tobio gives it another minute, collecting himself before he gets up and picks up his shirt from where it had been abandoned on the floor. He pulls a face at the creases, hearing the tell-tale shuffle of Atsumu behind him, but he put it on. 

When he looks up, Atsumu is trailing past him and into the bathroom; as he locates his boxers and trousers, there's the sound of more shuffling, the soft-metal-slam of a trash can lid closing and the rush of a running tap. Atsumu reemerges a moment later with on his grey sweatpants shrugged on again, low on his hips; he tosses Tobio a warm, wet hand towel, and then collapses back on the bed as Tobio thanks him quietly, arms folded behind his head, one socked foot bouncing lazily to the rhythm of nothing.

There is another brief lull of silence as Tobio cleans himself up and puts his boxers and trousers on, disturbed only when he asks Atsumu where to dump the towel. When he returns from doing that the older boy is humming thoughtfully, which is weird because after sex Atsumu is kind of a boneless mass that doesn't want to move or do anything but cling to whatever's closest for a while.

“Your sister,” he says, apropos of nothing, “is she like that with all your friends? Or am I just special?”

Tobio blinks, thrown by the sudden shift. He’s still half-fussing with the collar of his wrinkled shirt, brain lagging behind the question.

“My sister?” he echoes, wary.

Atsumu nods without looking at him, gaze fixed somewhere on the ceiling. Still casual, still lounging like this is just another night. It is, in some ways, except now Atsumu knows Miwa exists. Has seen her. Has been sized up and, clearly, found himself wanting.

“She hasn’t really met anyone, other than Hinata.”

A contemplative noise from the older setter; his face, on the border of confusion. 

“What?” Tobio says.

“Nothin’, I just…” He shifts, leaning back on his palms, “I can’t imagine Osamu not knowin’ my friends. Can’t imagine him not knowin’ you at all.” 

Tobio doesn’t really know what to say, so he just lets out a noncommittal grunt, focusing back on his shirt.

It is only a few moments later that Atsumu is speaking again, “How long has she lived in Osaka?”

“About four years? She moved out straight after her high school graduation, went to Tokyo for a while.”

Atsumu hums like that’s what he expected. “And now, here.” He’s tapping his fingers in a steady rhythm against his bed. “Are you close?”

Tobio hesitates, fingers pausing at the last button on his shirt. He’s not sure what Atsumu’s fishing for, but it prickles at something anyway. He glances over, the older man is still sprawled out, expression unreadable, the bounce of his foot finally stilled.

“I mean, she’s older than me by a bit. We were close as kids, yeah.” Tobio shrugs, eyes flicking toward the window like the view might save him, but it only makes him think of the bitter nights when she didn’t pick up the phone. “We stopped being so close whilst I was in middle school. Early high school too. We talk now.”

Atsumu watches him for a beat, quiet. He’s got that ruminative look in his eyes, the one Tobio’s seen before, the kind that raises goosebumps across his skin even in the heat.

“You miss her?” He asks.

Tobio shrugs, they’re not like Atsumu and Osamu; he doesn’t know how to explain it. “We talk.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Tobio doesn’t answer, just finishes doing his buttons up, and Atsumu doesn’t push. 

He thinks of Miwa, the roots of her in him, their family tree—neat, concise. Distant. Miwa will always be the greatest person he has ever known, but she is also the first person to teach him that people leave. The second, after their parents, to teach him that aloof withdrawal can come from anywhere. 

Never, will he blame her for any of it. But neither does he understand, mostly because she hasn’t explained it. Just decided one day that she’s ready to speak to him again. Phone calls and texts slowly pouring in like rainfall in the summer. Less rare over time, but still not normal. 

Of course, he understands. They are not a talkative family, nothing like Hinata and Natsu, nothing like Atsumu and Osamu. A part of him will always envy that, but he supposes he and Miwa are close in different ways. She watches his matches, texts him when she gives herself spontaneous hair cuts, always asks if he’s eating right; he… 

Well, he answers. 

He supposes, that might be all he does. Never reaching, not like her; the bird that comes to rest on the oak branch. Stuck in its ways.

“Yer pullin’ the overthinkin’ face again Tobio-kun,” Atsumu sing-songs, cutting that vine of thoughts. When Tobio looks at him, however, his face is placid, like he can see something is eating at him.

“Do you think I’m unchanging?” He asks, aware of the abruptness of it and uncaring. 

Atsumu blinks, caught off guard for a split second before his face morphs into a look that says, Are you serious?

“Nah. You’re not some statue or something. I mean, do ya even remember our first nationals match?” He shrugs, voice easy but with a hint of challenge. “That's enough proof you ain't unchanging...but I guess you’re definitely stuck in some of yer ways. Stubborn as hell. Like an old tree or somthin'.”

Tobio’s lips twitch, half-smile, half-smirk, but he doesn’t deny it, just repeats the words, deadpan, “An old tree. Right.”

“Yeah, yeah, lame metaphor,” Atsumu leans forward, seemingly embarrassed, elbows resting on his knees, eyes sharp now. “Even the oldest trees grow new branches. Maybe you just gotta let yourself bend a little.”

Tobio looks away, the corner of his mouth tugging upward but his eyes still serious. “Maybe.”

“And,” he continues, “if this is about yer sister, I think she just sees her baby brother sometimes, not the Olympic athlete, or the freak that gets off on people’s hands.”

Tobio scowls. "I don't get off on people's hands," he says flatly, making Atsumu snort, always annoyingly delighted when he succeeds in ticking Tobio off. 

“My point is maybe she just hasn’t caught up to who you really are yet, and maybe yer the one who’s gotta show her.”

It is oddly wise coming from a man who was, just this morning, covered head to toe in flour and adamant it was his brother's fault, not his. 

Tobio snorts despite himself, the tension easing out of his shoulders a little, “Wise.”

“I know right,” Atsumu says with a crooked grin. “I can surprise you sometimes.”

It is sweet, the honey-gold warmth of him in that moment. The brilliant marigold mess of his hair, a field of flowers uprooted by Tobio’s eager hands. He wants to touch it again, straighten it out; he glances at his phone instead. 

“Alright, I should get going. I’ll see you, Atsumu-san.”

After that first night in the hotel, they don't stay over. It's just some unspoken rule.

Atsumu gives him one last warm smile, “See ya, Tobio-kun.”

❧

The next day, Miwa and Tobio stroll through Nakanoshima Park in companionable silence. The air is warm and carries the faint scent of blooming roses, and Tobio’s mind keeps drifting back to what Atsumu said, remembering the way Hinata would be so open with his sister about any and everything, the way even when Osamu and Atsumu bicker, he can tell they love each other and they both know it. Saeko in the stands cheering for Tanaka, Tsukishima’s older brother with them. Empty seats Tobio learned to stop noticing.

The thoughts have been like a superbloom of butterbur in his mind—healing, unignorable. It feels like a different kind of family than what he grew up with, and strangely, it’s starting to feel like something he wants too.

Miwa’s saying something about the client she has booked for tomorrow. Too picky, too difficult, never happy with anything. He wants to ask why she keep booking them, but he knows she thrives on the challenge. Enjoys it far too much. She’s a lot like him in that way.

They’re circling the rose gardens when she looks up at him with a smile and says, “Enough about me, what did you get up to after we split off?”

Tobio hesitates, then says, “I hung out with Atsumu-san. Had some food, watched a match.”

Miwa, annoyingly, does not look that surprised. She hums, studying him for a moment, “Sounds like you guys are close.”

Tobio shrugs, a little guarded, “I’ve known him since high school, but we’ve only really become friends since I went pro.”

“You haven’t ever talked about him, is all. I’ve heard about Karasuno and Hinata and Ushijima and Romero, just never Atsumu. Not outside of volleyball, that is.”

Tobio gives her a deadpan look. “I’m all about volleyball.”

She laughs softly, the kind of sound that comes easy when with someone you know too well. The city pulses around them.

“You’re right, I shouldn’t be surprised I suppose.” She pauses, the laughter petering off into something a little more serious. The twist of her mouth downwards, “I don’t know. He always looks at you like he wants to win something.”

Tobio wills himself not to flush, “We are rivals.”

”All your rivals that flirty with you or is he just special?”

That time, he is aware of the redness of his face, can feel the heat of it. More concentrated than that from the sun.

”He’s just nice.”

”Nice?” Miwa echoes, almost disbelieving.

”Nice.” Tobio kicks a pebble that is in their path, adds on, “He’s like that with everyone. Well, almost everyone.”

It’s true. Atsumu is touchy, teasing, prone to an obnoxious level of familiarity, just as he easily turns mean. Tobio remembers it right from the start, their first meeting at the All Japan Youth Camp, a weird, infuriating blend of overly-familiar behaviour and comments that were designed to make Tobio frown. He is kind too, though. Attentive. 

His sister hums. Doesn’t comment on it any further.

They continue strolling, chatting casually, until they come to some benches overlooking the water, surrounded by bushes of red carnations. They settle there, Miwa pulling out her handheld, electric fan and turning it on instantly; Tobio, adjusting his baseball cap to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun. For a while, they sit in silence, letting the swell of the street wash over them: someone’s dog barking at a pigeon with futile rage, a child whining in Kansai-ben, cicadas ticking in the trees like a countdown.

Down the path, Tobio watches a girl and a boy, both with the same dark hair and matching clothing, play some kind of invented game. Half tag, half dance, full of laughter. They’re maybe eight or nine, and weave around each other like vines in bloom, unselfconscious and chaotic, moving with a rhythm only siblings seem to understand. The girl grabs the boy’s sleeve and yells something triumphant, and he drops dramatically to the ground, defeated.

Miwa follows his gaze and smiles softly. He knows she is thinking about their races in the morning, their grandfather trailing behind. He can tell by the wistful tinge of blue in her eyes. The air from her little fan tousles the wisps of hair at her temple. 

And then, because he wishes to be more open, less emotionally repressed, he says: “It looks good.” It comes out quieter than he means it to. Small, coltswood candour. 

Miwa glances at him then, eyebrows raised, slightly confused.

“Your new haircut,” he clarifies, which only seems to surprise her. A momentary freeze of her features.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Miwa nods. “Thanks. Needed a change. Too much of my old self was getting caught in the drain.”

He lets out a soft laugh, the image sudden and vivid. “That sounds disgusting.”

“It was,” she says, flashing him a grin.

The heat presses closer, or maybe it just feels that way because of her nearness, and Tobio wonders, briefly, what might’ve happened if they’d never left home. If they’d stayed static, the way so many others had. But then again, Miwa was never going to stay anywhere she couldn’t stretch out her limbs.

And Tobio…well, he was always going to follow the court. Go anywhere it took him. He’s realising just now, that maybe that’s the same feeling his sister has been chasing all her life, just without the goal being so clear. Not until she left. Found whatever made her feel the way volleyball did for him.

“Neesan,” he says seriously, waiting for a beat, “I’m really glad you’re doing okay.”

Miwa looks at him then, really looks, a cascade of subtle emotions breaking over her face. She smiles, soft, a little sad, but real. The kind that settles like sunlight on withering plants. “You too, Tobio.”

For a long moment, they just sit there. The breeze shifts, carrying the scent of carnations and warm river air. There’s something unsaid between them, not heavy, just old. A shared history folded up and tucked away like a photograph in a wallet: familiar, a little worn, still warm to the touch. Their grandfather’s smile in his mind’s eye. 

And he can tell, in that moment, that there is something taking root in the space between them, quiet and tentative. Wildflowers reemerging after seasons of drought, in the most unloved of areas. Their lives have stretched in different directions, stalks bent by wind and time, but still tethered to the same patch of earth. Still reaching, even if slowly, toward each other’s light.

Tobio knows that whatever blooms will be beautiful. Maybe not the same as before, not the bright tangle of childhood daisies and summer grass, but something older. Wilder. More sturdy. The kind of flower that grows through stone and still finds the sun.

Chapter Text

August, 2017

Heat clings to the locker room like a second jersey, the kind you can’t peel off no matter how hard you tug at the collar. The air is heavy with the tang of liniment and fresh laundry, the crisp snap of new jerseys tugged over shoulders. Atsumu sits on the bench, elbows braced to his knees, the white tape still loose around his fingers. 

All around him, the team is loud: Bokuto shadow-spiking in the corner, Hoshiumi trying to jump higher than him, Aran watching them both with mild horror at their combined volume, Ushijima mildly warning them against overexerting themselves before the match even began, two of the older players running their mouths in two different conversations.

Beside Atsumu, however, Tobio is completely and utterly silent. The deep red of his jersey stretches tight over his shoulders, last name embossed in neat white letters that seemed almost too pristine in the chaos around them. He moves with quiet precision, tying his shoes in careful, measured loops. 

Nothing about it is unusual, except perhaps for the fact that Atsumu has been noticing Tobio’s little rituals more and more: the double knot, the habitual roll of the shoulders, the exact stretch of his wrists. He knew many things about Tobio already, his game habits, his inability to be anything but straightforward in post-match interviews, the way his mouth pouted and his eyebrows furrowed when he didn’t get a joke; Atsumu had tracked these notions across the net for years, back when all he wanted was to pick the boy apart and beat him to the floor. But here, in the same uniform, it is different. Now it isn’t just rivalry, not just analysis. Training together, traveling together, sleeping together—he’s picked up more than he thinks he meant to, mundane things like how Tobio always drinks the same kind of yoghurt drink from the training stadium vending machines.

He catches the crease of Tobio’s brow as he checks the laces again, the tilt of his chin as he glances toward the court doors, the steadiness in him that hadn’t been there back in high school. Not that Tobio had ever been unconfident in his actual skill, exactly. But back then he’d been holding something back—like a gate half-closed, a force he didn’t quite know how to use. The memory of that round-faced, polite young version of Tobio is always there in the back of Atsumu’s mind in moments like these, when Tobio looks as though he took every soft part of himself and sharpened it out. 

Now, there’s nothing restrained about him. His control is sharper, fuller, as if he’s figured out how to carry his own weight and everyone else’s with it. Olympic experience, sure. But there’s also something else, something that sets him apart, even here.

Atsumu tugs his towel tighter around his neck, teeth pressing against the inside of his cheek. An uncomfortable sort of heat coils under his skin, burns in the very tips of his fingers and curdles in his chest. It’s not his first championship with the national team, he was on the under nineteens team briefly, has been called to training camps and scouting events for the JNT since the start of his pro career, but it is the first since he missed out on the Olympics in the previous year. He’s been on plenty of stages before—nationals three times during high school, the V-League for the past three years, all televised scrimmages accompanied by screaming crowds—but this is different. Bigger. He should feel only excitement. Instead, there is that thin, restless edge beneath his ribs.

Because, despite the fact that he’s a year older and has been playing professionally longer, it is not Tobio’s first time with the JNT; Tobio has been to the Olympics with them, fresh faced and in the first year of his career, barely with his metaphorical foot in through the metaphorical door when Atsumu’s been lounging in the metaphorical room for years now. And it’s not like Atsumu is bitter about it, not really, just like he’s not ever been insecure about his skills, but it is strange. Different. 

There has been something alien under his skin all throughout their training sessions, a feeling that does not rush him all at once, but creeps on him slowly. Steady, like the growing flush of heat working its way along the belly of a snake pressed to sun-warmed stone, slithering its way across the burning desert sand that threatens to pull it in. Endless, eternal. It still hasn’t gone away.

And as the coaches sweep in and give their final notes, Atsumu nods along, rolling his shoulders, flexing his fingers one last time, trying to bury whatever is twisting itself into knots within the confines of his ribcage. Yet, despite himself, his eyes still slide sideways, finding their way back to Tobio, who is already listening, already centred, his entire posture one of quiet assurance. And damn if he doesn’t look good in Japan reds: the sharp cut of the jersey across his shoulders, the flush of color against pale skin, the way it seems to fit him as naturally as breathing.

Atsumu exhales, slow and steady, but that thing under his skin doesn’t subside its writhing. He knows that the coaches have made their decision: Kageyama is going to start. Not him. Their eyes always follow him in drills, their questions always angle his way in meetings. Atsumu notices it every time, and he cannot really blame them because Tobio is damn good, a genius, as many people love to call him, but Atsumu’s pretty damn good too. Just as good.

It is disorientating. For once in his life, Atsumu isn’t the one being leaned on. Being picked. He doesn’t like the feeling all that much. The sensation is a low, relentless hum beneath his skin, a flicker of discomfort, a twitch just beneath the surface, like the first dry crack in old worn out clay. A heat that itches.

He keeps looking at Tobio, the slope of his cheekbones, the tense muscles of his arms, his porcelain skin. The sensation only tightens, like a double-knotted shoe lace, or perhaps a noose. He looks away, swallows dryly, wills the clammy feeling of his hands away. 

What he doesn’t know is that the feeling is already seeping into his bone marrow, that it will only grow until it becomes restless in every part of him. The kind of madness a serpent must feel just before it sheds, when the old skin no longer fits, when staying still feels like suffocating.

Because the world around him hasn’t shifted, not yet, but something within him has already started to split without his permission. 

❧

The stadium air is sharp with heat and noise, every cheer cutting like a knife through the rafters. 

They’re playing the quarter final, hoping for their another win, though play, here, is a generous term, at least when it comes to him. He’s a glorified benchwarmer. A spare body in a jersey, sweating through his tracksuit while the starting six tear up the court.

Atsumu’s not sulking, not really, but there’s a coiled restlessness in him, a twitch in his jaw every time the whistle blows and it isn’t for him. He sits on the bench with his knees bouncing, his arms crossed too tightly across his chest, pretending he’s perfectly fine with watching the game unfold without him. Perfectly fine with being background noise.

If he is honest, he’s being a little dramatic. They have brought him onto the court for a few games. Swapped him in and out with Tobio. Hell, he’d already been out once last set, sent in as a pinch server. Landed his shot, too, brought them up into the lead with three service aces, but it isn’t the same as being out there every rally, steering the team. Not the same as being the setter who called the tempo. But, still, he knows his turn will come eventually; the coaches aren’t blind. They’d used both of them in the last match, ran them side-by-side. For a few rallies, they’d shared the court, flicking the reins back and forth, creating chaos out of order. A strange, snarling two-headed thing that almost worked, that maybe could be deadly if given enough time to grow fangs. 

But he’s not the star. Not the go-to. No, that’s Tobio. Vicious, precise, youngblood royalty. Born with courtliness burned into him like the lines of his palms. 

And watching him, now as they battle it out in the against Australia, Atsumu feels that cold-blooded thing stir again, the same one that slithered into his chest all those years ago during the selection for the Rio Olympics. A familiar tightness that wraps around his ribs, a memory dressed in venom: the knowledge that even before the wrist injury, even at his best, he was never going to be selected. Not for that one spot on the team. 

Not over Tobio.

He knows Tobio was selected as a pinch server, not exclusively as a setter, but it still hurt at the time. It is like salt to the wound to see now that they just slightly favour him over Atsumu to take the main setter spot on the squad. It is sort of obvious from how Tobio’s playing most of the final and not him. 

He’s not envious of Tobio, or at least, he tries not to be, because envy is a weak man’s crutch. A paltry excuse for inertia. A sure fire method to become stagnant. A way to feel sorry for yourself while doing fuck-all to change your own damn fate.

And Miya Atsumu is not a weak man.

But, it does not change the fact that he wants it—wants that same chance Tobio has right now: to pull the team around on his terms, his toy soldiers tied to strings, orbiting around him like they’ve been caught in his gravity.

Atsumu knows he’s good. He’s always known it. But here, he’s just another body on the sideline, another name on the roster. And maybe that’s the part he can’t stomach, because he hates the feeling of his skin going stale, of potential left to fester under layers of sweat and silence.

He shifts on the bench. Crosses his arms the other way.

He watches the perfect arc of Tobio’s back in a set, the sharp, surgical delivery. Pinpoint precision, swift speed. The ball snaps from his hands to Hoshiumi’s, a perfect rise that kisses the apex of his jump. Next rally, Bokuto—higher, harder, like Tobio had tugged the thread of his muscles himself, a brilliant, maddening puppet master at the peak of his play. 

Atsumu feels his own jaw tightening, something restless pushing against his ribs. The thrill of the sight is unchanged, and Tobio is wonderous. Same as always. 

It takes Atsumu back to the last Olympics. To being stuck at home, glued to the screen and trying to overcome the restlessness and FOMO, courtesy of his tendinitis. 

He remembers the feeling Tobio stirred in him with his plays, the one that has existed right from their first clash at nationals: this overwhelming, relentless urge to bite. To win. To chase him down and be neck and neck with him, always. To drag him to his knees. 

He doesn’t know if it’s rivalry or worship—probably an embarrassing blend of both. Something primal, wired into him from the start. It spires in him, low and slow, a viper stirring in his gut every time Tobio moves like the court is just another muscle he knows how to flex. 

Oh and there’s a bite to it, this maddening feeling. Of course there is. A flash of fang, this constant urge to just strike. To unhinge his jaw like a constrictor and devour. To challenge him, match him, beat him.

But it goes so much deeper than that. Past the scales, the oberhautchen, into the long, snick-snack of his ribs. The rushing blood in the vessels all around. Because Tobio’s not just the benchmark; he’s the spark. He doesn’t just play; he sheds. Each match a skin left behind, every movement honed tighter, quicker, more lethal than the last.

And Atsumu watches, enthralled. Devastated mostly by the fact that Tobio can make him feel both small and limitless in the same breath. Like he’s not just chasing Tobio, but learning. Teeth bared, lungs burning, not just to catch up, but to be worthy of the chase.

So yeah, maybe some of it is envy. But it’s also awe. Furious admiration. 

And when Tobio glances his way—cool, unbothered, rivulets of sweat dripping down his perfect face—Atsumu does want to bring him to his knees, in more ways than one, but he also wants to be the reason Tobio stands back up. He wants to become something dangerous enough that Tobio has to look back and bare his fangs in return. The way they are in the V-League. 

Because if Tobio is the King, cold-blooded and cool, then Atsumu will just have to be the snake in the grass, slithering at his heels. An unexpected reminder that even kings can be hunted in the wild.

He wants them both to molt, burn through skin after skin, until all that remains is that thick heat between them and the anticipation of who will strike first. 

❧

The hotel pool glows turquoise under the deck lights, the surface broken again and again by cannonball splashes. They won the semi final this afternoon, and now the final against Kazakhstan is in two days. Some of the team are at the hotel bar, a few of the older players retiring early. Atsumu, Aran, Tobio, Hoshiumi, Bokuto, and Ushijima are here instead, killing time together. 

Across the pool, Bokuto and Hoshiumi are relentless, each trying to outdo the other with louder shouts, bigger waves, while Aran sits in a lounge chair with a towel draped over his head, muttering about how he should’ve just gone to bed, sounding like he’s a retiree and not a damn professional athlete. 

“Ya sound like yer eighty, Aran-kun,” Atsumu teases, sliding into the water with a grin. The forever youthful mischievous part of him that has loved testing Aran’s patience since he was nine years old and decided the older boy’s name was the coolest thing he’d ever heard, thinks that joining Bokuto and Hoshiumi right about now seems like a great idea. If only to splash Aran just once. 

Aran lifts the edge of the towel just enough to squint at him. “Feels like it, listenin’ to those two.” He pauses for a moment then, lifting a skeptical eyebrow. “Don’t ya even start to think about splashin’ me with ‘em.”

“WHAAT???” Atsumu shivers dramatically, overcome with chills. “How’d ya know what m’thinking?!”

“’Cause yer personality ain’t changed since ya were ten,” Aran drawls, letting the towel drop back over his face like he’s already resigned. “Always lookin’ for trouble, always draggin’ the rest of us into it.”

Before Atsumu can even begin to refute that terrible, mean, untrue accusation, another splash drenches them both, Bokuto’s voice carrying across the pool—“That one was huge!”—and Hoshiumi immediately counters with a cannonball so wild it nearly knocks him under.

Atsumu laughs, wiping water off his face, and as he’s doing so, his gaze drifts across the pool, past the chaos, to where two steadier shapes cut through the water. Ushijima slices through the water in clean, heavy strokes. Beside him, Kageyama keeps pace, relentless, arms carving perfect lines. He doesn’t stop, not even when Ushijima finally pulls himself out to sit at the edge and chat quietly with Aran. He just keeps swimming, lap after lap, body cutting so smooth it looks like the pool was made for him.

It pulls at Atsumu’s chest, the sight of him. Shoulders carving perfect lines, hair slick against his head, face set in that blank, determined calm. He looks—fuck. He looks good. Too good. Atsumu pushes off the wall with a kick, slicing into Tobio’s lane. 

“Race ya,” he calls, already surging forward.

Tobio glances once, sapphire eyes narrowing with the dark burn of competition, and then he’s chasing, the water churning between them. They thunder down the lane, arms breaking water in tandem, Atsumu’s chest burning as he reaches for the far wall. He stretches out, misses by a fraction, but he shoves off anyway, kicking just a second early, a half-beat of stolen momentum.

By the time his palm smacks the wall again, he’s a body-length ahead. He throws his arms up, grinning wide, aware of the shit-eating, smarmy cut of it on his face. 

“Ha! Winner.”

Tobio surfaces a second later, raven hair slick and plastered to his forehead. He blinks at him, deadpan, droplets of water clinging to the spider-legs of his long eyelashes, glinting under the lights like crushed diamonds. There’s water running down the pale skin of his throat in distracting rivulets that Atsumu cannot seem to tear his eyes away from.

“You cheated,” he says, voice flat, lips parted and pink from chlorine, breathing a little sharp. It’s sort of what he looks like after Atsumu kisses him breathless, biting his lips raw and swollen. Puffy and perfect for another round of making out. 

Atsumu laughs, splashing water just to distract himself from the heat thrumming in his veins, “A win’s a win, Tobio-kun.”

The splash lands; Tobio’s mouth twists down, brows pulling tight. It’s not a scowl, not really, more of a pout, unguarded and unbearably cute. It hits Atsumu in the gut, something low and hot, the kind of urge that makes him wanna grab Tobio by the shoulders and shove him under, see if he still looks this good, gasping into a kiss.

(He does. By now, Atsumu knows he definitely does. He remembers the sight of Tobio against his bedsheets just a month ago, mouth parted open on devastating gasp that almost sent Atsumu over the edge on its own.)

Instead, Atsumu grins wider. “Yer such a sore loser.”

The younger setter just shakes his head, stubborn and silent, then dives under again. His body stretches long and sleek through the water, shoulders snapping perfectly with each stroke, and Atsumu’s left floating there with his chest tight, pretending he’s not watching every move.

Before he can sink too deep into staring, a tidal wave crashes over his head.

“Gotcha!” Bokuto crows, Hoshiumi right behind him, both of them thrashing like overgrown kids.

Atsumu sputters, shoving water out of his eyes. “The hell—”

Aran groans from the chair. “Can y’all not? Some of us are tryin’ to relax.”

Bokuto ignores him, grabs Atsumu’s arm, and yanks him under with a laugh. Hoshiumi dogpiles on, and suddenly Atsumu’s caught in their chaos, dragged into a whirl of splashing and shouting.

Still, when he surfaces, coughing and laughing despite himself, his gaze goes instinctively back down the lane.

Tobio’s still swimming. Steady, relentless, untouched by the noise. And Atsumu can’t shake the heat curling in his chest, even with two maniacs trying to drown him.

❧

A few days later, Japan does end up winning, and of course, this warrants celebration. 

The entire team spills out into the humid Indonesian night, buzzing with energy. A sprawl of beer-flushed, sunburned, muscle-cramped joy, out for dinner. They cram into a small, wooden outdoor table at a tucked-away establishment that keeps the cold bottles coming and the skewers sizzling against a backdrop of tinkling sounds of laughter and clinking glasses filling the otherwise-still night air.

The older guys anchor one end, trading dry jokes and quiet toasts; the younger ones have bunched together at the other, laughter running louder, sharper, fueled by the giddy afterglow of the championship. Atsumu wedges himself between Bokuto and Aran, while across from him sit Tobio and Ushijima, with Hoshiumi’s seat empty; he bolted for the bathroom five minutes ago and hasn’t returned yet.

Bokuto is already half tipsy before the starters arrive, pumped with leftover adrenaline from the match, practically vibrating with it. His energy crackles at the edges: grin too wide, laugh too loud, the slap of his hand to their backs a little too forceful. It would be a lot, but Atsumu’s used to it by now; Bokuto’s always like this after a win, lit up from the inside, unable to sit still, like his body hasn’t realised the game is over.

Aran, on the other hand, is his usual mellow self. The smooth, cool guy he is when Atsumu has not riled him up. He’s sipping slowly on his beer, leaning back in his chair, all loose-limbed as he regales a few of the guys with one of the most embarrassing moments of Atsumu’s life: his and Osamu’s childish, rather public arm wrestling match over a girl they both liked, only for her to not-so-politely reject them. Also rather publicly. 

“The best part,” Aran says, gesturing lazily with his bottle, “was how seriously they took it. Full-on elbows-down-on-the-table, duel-of-honour showdown bullshit. All over this one girl. What was her name again? Miki? Mika?”

“Maki,” Atsumu mutters, dragging a hand down his face.

“Right. Maki. Fittin’, that,” Aran grins, wicked and warm. “She watched this whole pathetic little testosterone-addled, dick measuring contest with the most unimpressed look I’ve ever seen. Then told ‘em, and I quote, ‘I wouldn’t date either of ya even if ya were the last bastards left on Earth.’ Public settin’. Whole party went dead silent.”

Bokuto wheezes, nearly spilling his drink. The others titter softly at his reaction and Atsumu’s misery.

He groans and slumps lower in his seat, face hot with a shame that hasn’t aged a day. “I was fifteen. And probably tipsy off one damn Strong Zero.”

“You were also cryin’ on our walk home,” Aran adds not-so-helpfully.

Atsumu groans even louder and buries his face in his hands, the sting of embarrassment mixing with the unshakable fondness that knowing Aran came with, even if he was being a total asshole right now. 

“Don’t worry, Tsum-tsum,” Bokuto says, “she just didn’t get you. You’re a catch! And besides, there’s probably nothing more embarrassing than that from your high school days that Ojiro-kun could tell us.”

Aran’s halfway through a sip when his eyes start gleaming with that dangerous fondness Atsumu knows too well. “Well, there was that one tournament in high school—” he begins, and Atsumu groans immediately.

“No. Don’t.”

“Oh, come on,” Aran grins, ignoring him. “Yer set went flyin’ straight into the ref’s stand—knocked the whistle outta his mouth. He damn near fell off the chair.”

Bokuto bursts into uncontainable laughter, “That’s incredible! A setter so strong he takes out the officials!”

Atsumu sputters, cheeks hot, hiding in his glass. “It was one damn time—”

“Once was enough,” Aran says, satisfied.

Bokuto leans over, slapping his back twice in quick succession. “Don’t worry. You’re a genius now. A genius who destroys refs.”

“Yer not helpin’,” Atsumu mutters,  wheezing from the hits, but the warmth in Bokuto’s grin softens the sting.  

He reaches for his glass and downs what’s left like it might drown the fire licking up his neck. It doesn’t really help, especially when he risks a glance across the table, catching Ushijima’s mildly sympathetic look, and more importantly, Tobio, chopsticks steady, gaze lowered to his plate but his mouth pulled just slightly at the corner. Amused. Not cruel, not mocking. Just… entertained. It hits Atsumu harder than Aran’s story ever could, heat curling low in his gut.

The conversation drifts on from there, but Atsumu’s eyes stay where they are as he sips slowly on his beer. Tobio eats with his full focus on the curry before him, he’d ordered it with a half-fried egg and when Atsumu had raised a brow at him for it, he’d just shrugged. 

“All curry tastes better with an egg on top,” he'd said, tone matter-of-fact, like a ruling from the gods.

Atsumu had just blinked, a little endeared by the seriousness with which Tobio said it. He hadn’t even expected or cared for a response, digging in right away. Tobio eats quick, neat, without fuss—he always has—but when he really likes something, it shows. The last time Atsumu dragged him to Onigiri Miya, Tobio practically inhaled the rice balls before Atsumu had even finished ordering. And every team meal this month, Tobio’s been quietly shuffling the pickled daikon to the side of his plate like it’s an enemy he refuses to engage, by the fourth night, when they had lunch together on a rest day he’d just picked it off Tobio’s plate without thinking of it when Heiwajima placed some there whilst he was distributing it for everyone around him; Atsumu had been completely overcome by the soft way Tobio thanked him. 

Atsumu catches himself staring too long. Tobio notices, brows pinching together in a faint frown. The eye contact lands in Atsumu’s gut like a dropped match in kerosene. Hot. Hissing. Hungry. 

“What?”

“Nothin’.” He shakes his head, too fast. “Nothin’ at all.”

They haven’t fucked for this entire trip—too caught up in their matches and training. Trying to avoid the risk of over-exertion or getting caught sneaking into one another's hotel rooms in the middle of the night. A mutual, unspoken agreement to behave. Professionalism. Distance.

The lapse has left Atsumu raw and wanting, and the heat certainly doesn’t help. It sticks to him like a second skin, hot and wet, oppressive in a way that suggests its sadistic sentience. Like it’s watching him squirm. In the humidity and the density, there is the kind of electricity that breeds shedding, sloughing off. Atsumu swears he can feel it happening, the slow peel of whatever good behaviour he’s been clinging to, like old skin he’s outgrown at a rapid pace.

Not that it takes much to loosen his grip; good behaviour, in his books, just ain’t worth a damn. Not fun. Unnatural. 

The night carries on, voices rising with drink, plates cleared and refilled. One by one, the older players migrate toward the crowded bar down the street, dragging the rest of them along. Atsumu ends up lingering near Bokuto and Ushijima at the bar, half-engaged in their quiet debate about blocking formations, until a flash of movement at the door catches his eye: Tobio ducking out, slipping back into the night like the noise finally drowned him.

Atsumu hesitates for a moment, then excuses himself, following.

Outside, the street’s cooler, quieter, the pub’s glow spilling onto the pavement. The air hums with distant traffic and the faint murmur of other late-night revellers, but it’s quieter than the restaurant, quieter than the bar, quieter than Atsumu’s own thoughts. The air smells faintly of rain and exhaust and something sweeter, maybe fried street food lingering from nearby stalls. Tobio sits on the low step, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped loosely, shoulders relaxed but not slumped. He doesn’t move to make room, and Atsumu doesn’t expect him to; he sits anyway, shoulder brushing against Tobio’s, feet resting on the pavement. 

The younger setter doesn’t look surprised but it, he just blinks at him with those lovely lashes, pretty eyes wide and gleaming under the moonlight. 

“Crowd too much?” Atsumu asks.

Tobio shrugs. “Just wanted some air.”

Silence laps between them, not awkward, just steady. The minutes pass, and Atsumu finds himself watching: the way Tobio tilts his head slightly forward, chin almost resting on his collarbone, hair damp and curling just at the nape of his neck; the small twitch in his jaw when he thinks; the faint rise and fall of his chest with slow, even breaths. He’s never not noticed Tobio, but now there’s time. Space. Quiet. And the combination is… dangerous.

“Ya played like a damn maniac today,” he says finally, letting his voice be casual, but it’s easier than the tension he feels twisting in his gut. 

Tobio glances up, just the corner of his eyes, just enough to catch Atsumu’s, then back down. “Thank you. It was a fun match.”

Atsumu smirks, “Yeah, bet it would be fun pullin’ those damn monsters around for a whole four sets on yer own.”

Tobio tilts his head to the side, watches Atsumu sleepily for a moment, lips twisting effortlessly into a small frown. “Not all four sets," he says flatly. “You were on for one.”

Atsumu snorts, taken aback when he really shouldn’t have been. What else could he expect from Tobio, volleyball idiot extraordinaire. 

“Oh forgive me, I forgot I set to Ushijima that one time.”

“And Ojiro-san too.”

“Semantics.” Atsumu says, waving the conversation away. “Still helped us win with my serves, didn’t I?”

Tobio hums, and Atsumu catches the twitch at the corner of his mouth, a faint smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it’s there. He mutters softly, “I had it in the bag by then.”

“Tobio-kun!” Atsumu whines, “Don’t be mean, I’ve been bullied enough tonight! Besides, we’re on the same team, we both won, let me celebrate.”

Tobio just rolls his eyes, but it is fond. Atsumu can tell because his lips go a little wobbly when he’s amused or flustered. Tobio can be a complete open book sometimes, it is fascinating to Atsumu.

“Yes,” he murmurs. “We did win. We’ll win next time too.”

Atsumu blinks at the quiet, confident undercurrent of his voice. The utterance of those words that they’ve only ever really used against each other. He realises, suddenly, that this is the first time they’ve ever celebrated the same victory. The same side of the net. No immediate rivalry to burn the edge out of the win. Just… this.

He thinks, suddenly, about Tobio on court today, sweat streaked and blazing, lifting the trophy with that look of stunned determination, like he could hardly believe it and yet had never doubted it at all. He looks good now too: loosened shirt collar, hair damp from the shower, the kind of tired glow that makes Atsumu’s chest twist.

Atsumu can feel the itch from earlier return, peaking under his ribs, the desire so visceral that it burns. The last time they’d had sex was when Tobio was visiting his sister in Osaka. His mind keeps turning back to Tobio helping him put away dishes, polite and too in place. He didn’t know why he’d asked him over for dinner, if he’s honest with himself. He chalks it up to not wanting Tobio’s only impression of him in the kitchen being a flour-covered disaster. It still feels too warm, too sweet.

The thought always devolves into the endearing image of him standing awkwardly in Atsumu’s kitchen, the flush high on his cheeks, the way he nervously thumbed the stalk of his wine glass over dinner, the sweet sounds he muffled into Atsumu’s pillow. 

It’s only been a month, and sure, if he’d wanted it that bad he could’ve gotten it from anyone else, but there’s a special sort of satisfaction to sex with Tobio. A white-hot, keening pleasure that bursts under his eyelids like fireworks. 

He shifts, letting his foot brush against Tobio’s shin. Slow, tentative.

For a second, he’s not sure Tobio will answer. From where he’s sitting, he looks completely at ease, but Atsumu knows better now. He is aware of the quiet hunger lurking beneath that calm surface. The same hunger that’s been eating at him all trip long. The floodgates, about to burst.

Then there’s the faintest press back, deliberate, the weight of it sparking like a wire between them. A silent promise beneath the raucous laughter drifting out of the bar behind them. Atsumu’s breath catches, the hissing desire getting all the more intense. 

Waiting suddenly feels unbearable.

❧

The hallway is quiet, the kind of quiet that makes the clicks of their shoes echo against the tile. It’s a quarter to one, and he’s just knocked on Tobio’s door after the pair of them abandoned the celebration at the earliest opportunity, feigning fatigue and trailing back with Tsuetate, Heiwajima and one of their coaches. The entire walk back, Atsumu had to fight the wild urge to take Tobio’s hand in his, their knuckles brushing ever so often. The others had chatted softly ahead of him, commenting on the match, the food, the drinks, but Atsumu’s half-listening the entire time. 

He’d watched Tobio: the way his hair curls damply at the nape of his neck, the faint crease that forms at the corner of his mouth when he thinks. He didn’t pull away when their knuckles brushed, but he didn’t glance down either. 

Atsumu doesn’t think they’ve ever held hands. 

Except for a few days ago when he didn’t want to lose Tobio in the crowd in the stadium when they went to watch the semi final to determine who would play Japan. 

And of course, there was that time in Tokyo when Tobio clasped onto his hand when they’d walked side by side under one umbrella, fingers brushing until Tobio had slid his palm over Atsumu’s, pulling him in so they both fit properly, holding on through the downpour. 

There was the time after practice last summer when Tobio had pulled Atsumu’s hand to steady him as they slipped on the wet court floor, fingers tightening just enough to anchor him.

And the time—

Atsumu pauses. Okay. Maybe they had held hands before. 

But none of those times really counted, did they? They shouldn’t with how easy it felt. 

When they reached their floor, Atsumu noted the stillness of the corridor. The others said their goodnights and scattered, rooms shutting behind them, laughter trailing faintly from the distant elevator. He shot Tobio a look as Tsuetate passed by, mimed to give him five minutes and then slipped into his own room first, the door clicking shut behind him. He changed quickly, tugged on a clean shirt and his sleep shorts, washed off the last of the day’s sweat, and smoothed back his hair. His heart had beat fast; now, standing outside Tobio’s door, he can still feel the anticipation curling low in his stomach.

It’s juvenile and embarrassing. He can’t seem to stop it though. 

The soft click of his hotel room door opening brings Atsumu back to the moment. Back to Tobio, dressed down in loose pajamas shorts and an oversized and worn cotton t-shirt with some cheesy volleyball pun scrawled over it. Endearment bubbles within Atsumu, threatening to spill in the form of peals of soft laughter, but he’s too caught up with the sight of Tobio, leaning against the doorframe, the dim light catching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. 

He steps aside, nods at Atsumu to come in, which he does without hesitation, shutting the foot behind him. 

Tobio looks exhausted, the heaviness of it lingering in the slump of his shoulders but his eyes are still sharp, watching. His lips are still plump and rosy, summer fruits begging to be bitten into. 

Atsumu thinks of the frustration of watching Tobio from the bench. The onlooker, powerless, watching the king take court. The flash of cream coloured flesh from between Tobio’s shorts and his full leg compression sleeves. He remembers painting that canvas in mulberries and lilacs as he pleased. 

It is the thought of that—sizzling bitterness, fleeting envy, undeniable carnal craving—that makes Atsumu strike forward, catching Tobio’s lips with his own. A creature of the hunt, silent and precise, claiming its prey without hesitation. 

Tobio hisses at the impact, the clank of their teeth. But he recovers with the speed of something cold-blooded and predacious. Swift, like it's innate to him. Hereditary. His fingers twist into Atsumu’s collar, dragging him closer, mouths colliding again with a force that feels venomous. Their kisses, all tongue and teeth, a clash of hunger honed by restraint, the weeks apart slithering between them, curling tight like a serpent in heat.

It isn’t long before he has Tobio writhing in his lap, hot and heavy. His back plastered to Atsumu’s front, the ripple of his muscles so sweet and enticing. The twitch of his hamstring and the desperate curl of his hands into the bedsheets as Atsumu tries his damndest to get them both where they need to be.

He mouthed at Tobio’s throat, words spilling without filter. A little mean, unequivocally hungry, entirely wanting. He doesn’t know what it is, his tongue is looser than usual, he cannot seem to stop. 

And then, Atsumu lifts his hand to the cartilage rings of Tobio’s pale throat, fingers curling slow, deliberate. It is a movement devoid of premeditation, just instinct, muscle memory, want. He presses firmly, coaxing Tobio’s head back, exposing the long line of his neck like something offered. Their mouths meet in the next breath, heat sparking sharp between them.

He doesn’t know why he does it, but there’s a lot of things he does without thinking them through. This is just one of them. 

Violent is not the right word for it. Not quite. But there’s a pressure in it, something coiled and watchful, like a hunter testing the tension in its prey. Atsumu doesn’t mean it to be that way—doesn’t mean anything, really—but his body moves like it remembers something he’s never been taught. Gentle but fierce. 

And then Tobio’s eyes are on him. Bluebells, hazy. Wet and so, so wide. His voice catches on a strangled cry, the words clinging like smudged lip-gloss on a mirror.

“Tsumu-san,” he hisses. Begs. “Tsumu, please.”

The slur of it on Tobio’s tongue is intoxicating. Forked with desperation, drawled and damp. But it isn’t the pleading that breaks Atsumu; he’s used to that in some ways. Or, as used to as a man can be to something so divine. No, it’s the way that name spills out in that cut-up moan, soft like silk, as sharp as a shard of glass. Sweet mewl, crushed diamond tears clinging to his long, dark lashes. 

That is what cracks him open, has his jaw loosening; his mouth parting just enough for soft things to slip from him without his permission. Half-whispered, uncomfortably honest.

“I know,” he murmurs, nosing the line of Tobio’s jaw, “I’ve got ya baby.”

The word drops heavy in the air. Atsumu freezes, bracing for pushback. For Tobio to shove him off, glare, tell him to cut it out. Instead, Tobio arches up, gripping tighter, like the word has spurred him on.

Atsumu’s chest cracks open with it. Awe and pleasure and delight coming together. Tobio squirms at his stillness, so he says it again, repeats it like a promise. I’ve got you baby. Like a prayer he wasn’t aware he’d been holding on his tongue. Usually the only things he can spit out are violent, venomous. To cut and to hurt. Keep like trophies. But here, now, with Tobio trembling against him like a struck match, Atsumu’s voice softens on instinct. 

And Tobio— Oh he is divine. The sharp keen he lets out in response almost finishes Atsumu right then and there, and he has to close his eyes against the bright light of him. Moonlight shine. 

“What? Ya like that?” Atsumu teases, mouth brushing over skin that’s gone flushed and trembling. He nips on the shell of Tobio’s ear, just once, just to hear him squeal so he can press his throat a little tighter. A lingering squeeze, careful but sure, just enough to make Tobio arch and gasp like something caught in the grass. 

He snickers, aware of the mocking click of it in his throat. Tries to soothe it by brushing his lips over the edge of Tobio’s ear like a secret while he tries to maintain his rhythm. He wants, for some godforsaken reason, for Tobio to know it is not mean, this thing Atsumu’s feeling. Not a mockery; just awe. Hunger softened at the edges by something precariously warm.

“‘Course you do.” He continues, mouth tracing a path down Tobio’s neck with all the sloppy coordination of a drunk, though he’s not sure what he’s drunk off. Maybe just Tobio. “Y’kill me when you sound like that. So fuckin’ pretty.”

Atsumu’s hand stays at Tobio’s throat, not pressing anymore, just resting there—anchor, offering, worship. He’s losing the threads of his sanity, dizzied by the way his words keep slipping, the way his breath stutters between each sentence and the way one of Tobio’s hands has migrated to his hair. Tangled fingers, demanding. Pushing him closer. Subdued countenance cracking just a bit, eyes dark.

A sudden movement, sharp and feral; Tobio’s teeth sink into Atsumu’s shoulder, hard enough to hurt. No warning, no hesitation.

Startled, Atsumu jolts, letting out a wild, unguarded laugh. High and raw, like it’s been dragged out of his chest. Not mockery, not derision. Just delight. Disbelief. Something bright and breathless. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” Atsumu gasps, head dropping forward as his hand tightens instinctively at Tobio’s throat—not to restrain, just to ground himself. Touch bordering on tender, laughter featherlight. “There’s the real Tobio.” 

Mean. Messy. So beautiful it kind of hurts.

And the real Tobio meets his gaze, a wild sort of beauty to his blown out pupils and messy bangs. The real Tobio kisses him harsh and full, until Atsumu’s groaning, quiet and guttural, the sound hitching in the back of his throat as lithe fingers knot tight in his hair once more, urging, demanding. A grip devoid of gentleness or politeness, no trace of asking; that’s what makes Atsumu’s blood buzz. Has him pull away and nose lower, mouth grazing the hollow of Tobio’s throat, tasting salt and something sweeter beneath it—heat-stung skin, need, the barest edge of fear. Or maybe that’s his own. Can’t be Tobio’s. Not after that.

“Lemme, yeah?” he whispers, not laughing anymore. Voice low. Serious. Bare. “Lemme take care of ya, baby?”

Tobio doesn’t answer, not with words at least. But that’s fine because he doesn’t need to. He just surges up, mouth catching Atsumu in something rough and sudden, a collision more than a kiss. Heat-addled motion in the place of speech, like yes was not a word but a movement.

And Atsumu grins against it, sharp and crooked, all edge. The shape of it feels too big for his face, too full of hunger to be anything soft, yet it is; he knows it because the sweetness still lingers on his tongue despite the sleazy scythe of want on his lips, gleaming and sure.

Still, he gets on with it, completely dedicated to their combined gratification, babbling occasionally against Tobio’s sweat-matted hair, the thin skin of his temple.

He doesn’t even know what he’s saying anymore, only that he means every word.

❧

Later, after they've found bliss and Tobio smiles sweetly at him when bids him a good night, Atsumu returns to his room and stands against the door for a very long time.

Baby.

He’s never called Tobio that before.

Never used that voice, either, low and sweet like it means something. Never babbled so much during the act, all those sweet nothings he hadn’t even known he was holding. Usually it was simple. Efficient. Yes, more, please, good, fuck. Words made to get through it, not get caught in it. For rhythm, not meaning.

Not that he had never meant those words; of course he did. Atsumu is not in the habit of pretence. When he says something, he means it.

But baby—

Well, this is different. 

Tonight, the words had slipped out soft and easy, like they’d been waiting, sitting in his chest this entire time. Soft things he is sure he didn’t mean to say. But they’d poured into the space between them like it was instinct anyway. Had spilled out of him, warm and loose, sugar-coated around the edges. 

It is horrifying now, outside of the moment. Embarrassing. 

But Tobio—

Tobio hadn’t flinched; if anything, he’d soaked it in. He’d liked it. 

It was not a secret either, something he’d tried to bury into Atsumu’s neck. No it had been obvious, bare, completely on display for Atsumu like an offering. Tobio’s eyes, wet and wide, completely blown out and glassy. He’d clung tighter, mouth sweeter, the whole of him strung high on it like a taut wire—a bowstring on the verge of snapping.

And when he finally did come undone, it was with a sound Atsumu had never heard before. Wrecked and raw and almost grateful. A dying cry, more intense than ever before.

Atsumu had seen it. Felt it.

Worst of all, he’d liked it too. 

God, he liked that Tobio liked it. More than he should’ve.

And that’s the part he’s trying not to think about. The little twist, the slow broken bone that sticks out from his skin: Tobio’s reaction, the reward of it; it did something to Atsumu. Something small, but deep and dangerous. Something that feels like cracking. A give in the ground beneath his feet. He tries not to think about all things he keeps picking up on about Tobio, tries not to think about how this is supposed to be two friends casually sleeping together and now he’s doing shit he never does and it’s freaking him out—

And that coiling sensation returns, like the first slip into something he won’t come back from. Like a snake biting its own tail—slow, inevitable, stupid with instinct. It’s not a crash. Not a revelation. Just a flicker of something. A twitch just beneath the surface, a split, barely visible. Barely there. But real.

It leaves him with Tobio’s voice echoing somewhere behind his ribs, and the ghost of that word still curled hot on his tongue. Not like venom, but rather, like a pit in his mouth that he never spat out. Not bitter, not sweet either. Just stuck. Something he can’t swallow back down.

Atsumu collapses onto his bed, limbs slack, stomach hollow, mildly embarrassed by his behaviour. The sheets are neat, too cold compared to Tobio’s bed. And that smell. Tobio. Faint, but there. Aftershave. That clean, almost-berry scent from his body wash. Sweat. Skin. Breath. It hits like a sucker punch. Sharp and unfair.

He creases his brows in confusion, Tobio’s not been in here, so where…?

The realisation hits when he looks down at his torso and realises he’d accidentally put on Tobio’s shirt when he’d rushed his way back to his room, red all over. 

Great. Just great. 

He turns onto his side, pressing his face into the crook of his elbow, trying to smother the thought before it grows legs. Or teeth. Or scales. 

Atsumu doesn’t do soft. Doesn’t do baby. But it came out of him like it has always been there. And now he can’t stop thinking about the way Tobio looked when he heard it. 

Still, he tells himself it’s not a big deal. Heat-of-the-moment softness. Words with no weight to them. Meaningless shit in the long run. Just something to earn that dazed look in Tobio’s eyes again, that broken groan, that raw little ‘again’ that’s like music to his ears. 

How is it any different to calling him sweet? Or pretty? Or good? The usual suspects that escape Atsumu’s mouth in the low rasp of the night.

He tells himself it’s nothing.

But he’s not sure if he believes it.

Not really.

❧

The next morning, Atsumu hustles into the hotel dining room, tray in hand, hair still damp from a quick shower. The morning sun slants through the windows, painting the tables gold. Most of the team is already there, voices low, the clatter of cutlery mixing with murmurs. He ducks his head, scanning the room for a free seat, and spots Tobio near the middle, quiet as always, sitting beside Ushijima.

Sliding into the chair across from him, Atsumu feels the tight coil of nerves and leftover heat from last night under his skin. His foot presses lightly against the edge of the chair, a small, restless movement, trying to burn off some of it.

He tries not to think about any of it. Not his own voice, going so soft against Tobio’s cheeks, nor the delicate sound of Tobio’s voice breaking on his name. And definitely not the bite, still there under his shirt, like a burning wound. 

He’d stared at it in his bathroom mirror this morning. Tobio’s teeth, unmistakable, sunken into the soft junction of his neck and shoulder. Surrounding it, a bruise, purple bleeding yellow, fading slowly but still deep and dark enough, to be obvious. The intentionality of it, dizzying. The memory, intoxicating.

Without even thinking about it, he’d lifted his hand to touch it. Traced the edges slowly, gingerly. Maybe even reverently. Pressed it just enough to feel the echo of that sting. That sharp, perfect pain that shot straight to his gut. Knife-like in its precision. Muttered something low under his breath—a curse, a prayer. He’s not sure which now. Just like he’s not sure when he became such a fucking masochist. 

He wonders what kind of idiot gets off on this sort of suffering. His kind of idiot, apparently.

Across from him, Tobio glances up, and frowns. “You’re slow this morning,” he says softly, the words casual, even, like any other morning remark.

Atsumu blinks. That’s it. No teasing, no raised eyebrows, no deliberate mockery. Just ordinary, everyday normalcy. The ease with which Tobio folds last night’s intimacy back into friendship almost makes Atsumu feel worse. He’s rattled, flushed, aware of every twitch of his own body.

He swallows, forcing his shoulders to relax, pressing the tray down onto the table. “Yeah… sorry,” he mutters, voice quieter than usual. He forces a smirk, shakes his head at himself. “Didn’t sleep much.”

Tobio’s mouth goes wobbly at the implication. It is more reassuring than Atsumu though it might be. But really, what else did he expect? This is Tobio. Unbothered, straightforward, brilliant volleyball nerd Tobio. And if Tobio isn’t thrown off by last night then Atsumu sure as hell refuses to be as well. Hell, he can even take it a step further, armed with the knowledge that Tobio likes that word so much it makes him flush in such a distracting way. 

Still, that tight coil under his skin refuses to unwind: the echo of heat, a restless knot that hasn’t settled yet. He shakes it off, eats, and when he’s done, dumps the leftovers. Just breakfast. Just another day.

Except the vending machine by the trash can catches his eye. Those damn cartons Tobio’s always drinking. Atsumu sighs, drops in some coins, selects one along with a neon sports drink for himself.

Returning to the table, he sets the milk carton on Tobio’s tray, keeping his movements casual. Tobio’s eyes flick up, steady and calm as ever, meeting his without missing a beat, and Atsumu lets himself fold a little of that normalcy into himself. 

Atsumu leans just enough, voice low so only Tobio can hear, and murmurs with a sly grin, “There ya go, baby.”

Then, he settles in his seat once more, enjoying the flush of pink spreading along the ivory slope of Tobio’s cheekbones; the itching heat that kicks in is instant. That same crawling sensation that never seems to leave him nowadays, beginning at the back of his ears like a whisper and flooding all the way down. 

It’s not embarrassment, though he wonders if it should be. Just plain, undeniable need. 

Atsumu decides not to think about it anymore, cracking open his drink and letting the world continue as it always does: quiet, ordinary, intimate in a way that shouldn’t be, and yet is.

He thinks he could really get used to this reaction, even despite the faint death rattle noise that seems to rise within him at every repetition.

Chapter Text

September 2017

Japan’s hosting the Grand Champions Cup in under two weeks so Tobio’s in Tokyo with the rest of the national team, buried in training that leaves no room for weakness. His body, pushed to the edges; his mind, bright with plays like stars blazing against the dark of the night sky. 

It is non-stop: long hours, rough drills, no forgiveness. Relentless in the way that gravity is, a constant force saying go, go, go. Mistakes aren’t corrected; they’re erased, burned out in an instant. Dead-stars in the distance. Examples of galaxies that collapsed, something they cannot afford to repeat. 

The roster’s shifted again. A few new faces, a few missing ones. That’s how it goes. There’s no room to wait for alignment. Chemistry’s everything now. They don’t have the luxury of time to figure it out mid-match. 

Ushijima is still here—quiet, immovable, dependable. A steady presence that’s been with the team since the 2014 World League, as constant as a fixed star in the sky, his dominance carved into the fabric of the squad. He’s a force of nature in his own right, solid and unyielding like the core of a planet, unwavering no matter the chaos swirling around him. 

Tobio joined in 2016, a comet at first, sharp and burning with ambition. They’ve grown in this together. Between the JNT and years as teammates on the Adlers squad, they’ve orbited around each other long enough now to know the other’s trajectory without needing a glance. Tobio knows how to wield Ushijima’s power, knows that he will always be a sharp tool in his arsenal. But it’s more than just the two of them. The team’s only as good as how they fit together; they’re all pieces of a much larger constellation, each needing to find its place in orbit before the first serve at the Cup.

Atsumu and Hoshiumi came in last year, sharp and adaptable. Bokuto and Aran are the latest additions—talented, volatile, high-ceiling players who don’t have the rhythm of the team yet. Like Ushijima, Tobio knows how to play Hoshiumi, but it’s different playing him with the JNT than the Adlers, like tracking a comet cutting through the night. 

Bokuto’s energy is another challenge entirely. The guy is a living, breathing explosion of emotion. On any given day, he can be the heart of the team, pulling them forward with a roar, or scattered, a wild satellite spinning off into his own orbit. He’s not as eccentric as he seemed in high school, just as impressive as a hitter, and Tobio is learning to harness that, to find the moments when Bokuto’s fire can be channeled into something precise and devastating, but it’s never easy. But he loves that it isn’t. He’s relishing the challenge, the razor’s edge of balancing the chaotic brilliance against the risk of everything falling apart.

Aran’s different. Calm, thoughtful, self-assured with all the skill to back it up. He’s the quiet pull to their chaotic momentum. He doesn't shout, doesn’t showboat—unless pushed into it by Atsumu—but his presence is steady, like the unseen force that keeps a galaxy from spiralling out of control. Tobio’s still figuring out how to tap into that, how to use Aran’s reliability in a way that enhances the team’s fluidity.

There are older players, too. Ones Tobio has shared the court with during past tournaments, red jersey on his back and pressure wrapped tight around his chest. Both weights, heavy and familiar now: another outside hitter and two middle blockers. But it’s Hweijima he moves most easily with. There’s an understanding between them, unspoken but solid, built in the Adlers locker rooms and training sessions, almost three years of teamwork. 

Tobio’s role hasn’t changed. He’s still the sun at the centre of this galaxy. Set. Lead. Shape this lineup into something lethal—something that doesn’t just play well together, but overwhelms. He needs to set them in motion, align their forces in ways that make them unstoppable. He’s here to turn their chaos into gravity. To bring order to the storm. He’s here to create a gravitational pull that draws every player in until they’re all a force of nature, a tidal wave of destruction that no one can deflect. A constellation, scattered stars trying to become a single light.

They got a taste of that kind of power earlier this year. In June, they placed fourth out of twelve in Group 2 at the World League. Close. Not close enough. Then in Indonesia, they won the Asian Champions Cup. A brief eclipse of victory. A rare, stunning moment, fleeting but bright. It wasn’t amazing. Not world-shifting. Just clean. Like progress.

And progress is the beginning of it all. He remembers it from Karasuno. The first step on the ladder. 

The Grand Champions Cup is close now, and it is not the World League, nor is it the Olympics, but they’re still in their red jerseys. So they’re not just aiming to be good. They’re aiming for brilliance. Something that will leave a mark in the sky. That’s the goal every time, because only the strongest get to keep playing. And Tobio has changed in so many ways since he first said those words to Hinata, since his grandfather first said them to him, but his thirst to stay on the court will never be quenched. His love for volleyball will never change. Never fade. 

Tobio can feel it now, a blazing, bright light in his chest as he tightens his fingers around the ball during warmup and watches as Bokuto yells across the net, laughter half-wild. Hoshiumi’s bouncing on his toes like he’s ready to sprint through a wall. Aran’s talking with Ushijima about serve rotations, the both of them serious and focused. 

It’s a mess. It’s promising. It’s his to control.

A generation of monsters, that’s what they’re starting to call them. And Tobio knows it’s not just a title—it’s a weight. A mantle that will either crush them under its pressure or ignite them into something even more formidable. The strongest will survive this, and the strongest will remain. That’s how it’s always been. But the game is changing, its players are evolving. And Tobio?

He’s the one who gets to shape it.

Across the court, Tobio spies Atsumu stretching, quiet in a way he rarely is. Focused. As if he can tell he’s being watched, his eyes flick up to meet Tobio’s gaze, and a smile slowly curls on his mouth. Not soft, but challenging. Not playful, but a dare. It’s the kind of smile that says, I know you’re watching, and I’m not backing down.

Atsumu is the only one Tobio can’t control. They both play the same position, locked in constant competition for it. They’re not enemies, the same way Aran, Bokuto and Hoshiumi aren’t. They’re simply two sides of the same coin, and that’s why it’s never just about winning for Tobio. It’s about proving he’s the one who deserves it. Proving that, in the end, he can rise above the challenge of the other setter—the one who pushes him to be better, to do more, to perfect his craft.

Atsumu doesn’t make it easy. He never does. But that’s why Tobio respects him. Because every time they face off, every time they compete even when they’re on the same side, it’s like a reminder of why they’re here. Not just to play, but to own the court.

And so, when Atsumu’s eyes meet his, when that challenging smile flicks at the corner of his mouth, Tobio doesn’t feel anger; he feels acknowledgement. Because in this constant battle for the same position, they’re both striving for the same thing. To be the best. And in a way, they’re already there, every time they push each other to the limit.

❧

The training camp moves in phases. The days bleed into each other. Matches, drills, debriefs. Protein shakes, bruised shins, sleepless nights. They rewatch footage until the shapes blur into light and motion, taking in the steady criticism and praise from the coaches. 

Tobio doesn’t mind. He lives in routine. In refinement. In control. He’s a creature of habit, he goes on his morning runs, does his drills, trains, relaxes, resets. He’s used to the long days. Brutal reps. Noise. Cold showers and taped ankles and sleep that doesn’t feel like rest. 

This, too, is volleyball. 

What he’s not yet used to is Atsumu learning his lunch order without asking; Atsumu nudging his shoulder in lineups; Atsumu the team-mate, not the man across the net; Atsumu teasing him constantly, about the stiffness in his shoulders, the precision of his handwriting, the way he doesn’t know how to make small talk. Atsumu calling him baby when no one’s listening, like it's a completely normal thing to do. Like Tobio doesn’t have to stop himself from freezing every single time.

The first time he’d said it—baby, low and sweet, like it was just a breath between touches, moonlight slipping through branches—they’d been pressed together, the night thick around them like velvet, their mouths slick, skin hot, everything just a little out of control.

And Tobio, much to his surprise and dismay, had keened. The sound cracking out of him before he could bite it down. He hadn’t known he could sound like that. Hadn’t known he could want like that—open-mouthed, reaching, dizzy with it. He’d begged. Words spilling out of him like prayers torn loose from a worshipper too far gone to be ashamed.

Atsumu hadn’t flinched. Had just looked at him with something close to awe, like Tobio had split the sky open. Like he was a star burning too close to the atmosphere, and Atsumu had no intention of looking away.

Since then, it hasn’t stopped. Atsumu just throws the word out whenever he feels like it, like a feint that Tobio never manages to see coming. On the court, off the court, in passing, in texts. Slips it in like it doesn’t mean anything. 

Nice set, baby.

You forgot your bottle, baby.

You looked good out there, baby.

Casual. Constant. Cruel.

And every time, Tobio tries not to react. He tries. Keeps his expression flat, his shoulders straight, his eyes on the ground or the ball or anywhere that isn’t Atsumu’s mouth.

He doesn’t get nicknames that don’t have a little bite to them. An edge of sarcasm. Baby is not that; baby is ridiculous. Who says that in real life? And more importantly, who says it to him and makes it stick?

Atsumu does. Constantly. Like it’s just part of his vocabulary now. Like it’s just a thing he can name, casually, out loud, and Tobio won’t combust on the spot.

And maybe the worst part is that he hasn’t combusted yet. He’s just lived with it. Let it happen. Let it keep happening. Because pretending it doesn’t affect him is easier than admitting that it does. Because every time, it cuts through him, clean and bright, like a shooting star ripping across the dark. Something hot and ancient in his chest flaring like it’s being named all over again.

But that is a stupid reaction to have to something that is ultimately nothing. It’s just Atsumu being Atsumu, all nerve and grin and annoying audacity. It doesn't mean anything; it’s just another one of the million ways for the older setter to tease him and Tobio refuses to give him the satisfaction. He’s petty like that. 

They’re doing endurance drills currently, running laps around the court. It's been going on for so long now that everyone is panting. Bokuto fake-collapses the moment he’s done. Hoshiumi does too, eager to join the dramatics when he can. Heiwajima snorts at the display and pours water over his head.

Tobio doesn’t stop. He’s in the zone, listening to the thud of his own footfalls. A steady rhythm. 

Then suddenly, a towel smacks him in the face mid-run. Startled, he lets out a little noise of confusion, and then yanks the towel off so he doesn’t trip. Of course, Atsumu’s already laughing, jogging backward in front of him.

“Baby,” he grins, voice low enough for just the two of them “yer gonna melt. Take a break.”

Tobio scowls. It’s not the first time during this camp that the word has made it past the older setter’s lips; he would be lying if he said it didn’t do anything to him. Didn’t spark heat down his spine like a starfall. 

He just rolls his eyes, “Don’t trip, Atsumu-san.” And then he throws the towel back at Atsumu’s head, jogging ahead of the squawking laughter that follows him. 

If his sprinting is a little lighter from that moment on, well, that’s just unrelated.

❧

Another day, another practice session. Simulated matches with different formations. At one point they run synchronised drills: him and Atsumu across the net from one another, working in tandem and yet apart, feeding different attackers, adjusting the pace and angle. It's a dance of mirrored instincts and split-second decisions, like they’re twin stars locked in a gravitational pull, spinning on a parallel axis. Gemini splitting. 

There’s tension in the air. Neither of them wants to back down. That’s not new, it's ancient, this hunger in them. It hums like cosmic static, the kind of spark that would ignite a solar flare or a meteor shower. Burning, trying to shine without losing control of their orbit. Rivals pulled by the same fierce gravity, each trying to prove who shines brightest under the same sky. Callisto and Ganymede, Jupiter's two largest moons, formed around the same time, similar in so many ways, and yet entirely distinct. 

After a long rally, Atsumu throws him a challenging smirk, trying to distract from the fact that he’s exhausted, just like Tobio is. “Don’t quit on me now, Tobio-kun.”

Tobio just huffs a laugh and then smirks back, faster now, sharper. The others watch, some with quiet amusement, others with respect. It’s not just training. It’s a conversation in motion—a battle and a bond.

The team rallies around them, energy electric, sharper with their own hits now, like the enthusiasm and competition is contagious. In monsters like them, maybe it always is. 

After the final whistle, Tobio collapses onto the floor, sweat soaking into his sleeves, back resting against the cool wall. He chugs down half a water bottle in one gulp, which seems to really amuse Hweijima. 

Through the skylight above the gym, the moon is rising, pale and steady. A silent sentinel watching over the team as they sprawl on the floor, bodies heavy and spent, sweating, panting. A burnt out constellation scattered across a darkening expanse; faded stars that only seem to shine brighter in their exhaustion. 

The Cup is drawing close; they have an exhibition match in two days. The ache in Tobio’s shoulders is constant now, a dull throb threaded into everything. A pulsing heartbeat, constant and woven into every moment.

But he doesn’t mind it, because beneath the fatigue he can feel the rhythm settling in. Not just his own timing, but that of the entire team. Like they’re learning how to breathe together. All their heartbeats syncing, slow and sure, planets learning to orbit in perfect harmony.

After a few moments, Ushijima gets up and grabs protein bars to start tossing at everyone. Tobio gratefully catches one and starts munching straight away, though not as quickly as Bokuto, who practically inhales the thing in one single, lightning-fast gulp. 

When the chatter starts to rise, a soft cloud of noise, Atsumu flops down beside Tobio like a fallen star, dramatically resting his head on his knee.

“I’m dying, Tobio-kun,” he says, voice dripping with mock-theatrics as he holds up his opened protein bar packet for Tobio to take. “Feed me.”

Though he rolls his eyes, Tobio breaks a section of the bar off, and places it in Atsumu’s mouth without thinking. Atsumu makes a satisfied sound. Doesn’t move.

Tobio stares at the top of his head, unsure whether to shake him off or let him stay. There’s a softness to Atsumu in these moments—something he thinks most people never see. Off-court, quiet. Still golden, but less blinding. Sunlight that doesn’t burn; a spring day under the shade instead of an all-consuming super-nova. 

He doesn’t move either.

❧

The exhibition match against the USA ends in a win.

It’s not perfect: they fumbled a few rotations and the third set was messy; Bokuto nearly concussed himself diving for a ball he definitely shouldn’t have, nearly took Sokolov with him. Hoshiumi overshot three serves in a row. They barely scratched their way to it, but it’s still a win. 3:2. 

And despite the clumsy edges, their rhythm is beginning to click into place. Tobio feels it more than he sees it, a humming sensation in his chest, in the tips of his fingers when he sets: the way Aran adjusts midair before the set even leaves his hands, how Hoshiumi starts calling for certain tempos without looking. The way Ushijima ends rallies in clean, brutal thuds. It’s not numbers or stats they’ll see reported by commentators and pundits after the match, no. It’s instinct, a feeling that is only understood by those on the court. 

He thinks, maybe, he’s starting to understand what works. He’s starting to trust it. To trust them. They’re pulling together as a team. Not yet perfect, but possible. 

Atsumu didn’t come on at all during the match.

He stood by the bench, leaned into every huddle, and laughed at Bokuto’s terrible one-liners during timeouts, even tossed a towel at Hoshiumi when he sulked too hard after his fumble. He clapped hard and loud after the final point. And when Tobio came off the court, flushed and breathless, and said, with a grin just wide enough to hide anything else: “Nice game, Tobio-kun.”

Tobio hadn’t known what to say to that, could feel the heat flushing him was not just from the game. So he drank the water.

Now, in the locker room, spirits are high. Shirts half-off, towels flung over shoulders. Bokuto’s already halfway into a post-game interview in the mirror and Tsuetate, one of the older hitters, is trying not to laugh and choke on his protein shake. Winning, even if it’s just an exhibition match, does wonders for team morale. 

Tobio’s sitting at his locker, half-listening, replaying a few sequences in his head, when he hears Hoshiumi’s voice cut through the noise.

“Wait—wait, listen to this: ‘Kageyama Tobio’s hands are not real. They’re heaven-forged. Every toss a prayer. I’m losing my mind.’ That’s what it says. Literally. Look.”

Aran wheezes behind him. “Where’d ya find that?”

“Fan site,” Hoshiumi says proudly, angling his screen to show them. “One of the big ones. They’ve got gifs up already.”

“Oh my god,” Bokuto says, making a grab for the phone. “Read more. Read more.”

Tobio buries his face in his towel. “Please don’t.”

Too late. Atsumu saunters over, already holding up his own phone. The glint in his eyes does catastrophic things to Tobio. “I got one. Listen to this.” He pauses, clears his throat, and when he speaks again his voice is high and girlish, grating to the ears and dripping with melodrama, “‘He plays like the moon pulling the tide. Everything just moves around him. I’d let him ruin my life.’”

He ends his dramatics by collapsing on the floor by Tobio’s feet, one hand on his forehead. The room erupts into laughter, and Bokuto claps like he’s watching the final scene of a romcom. Tobio throws his wet towel at Atsumu. He dodges and grins.

“They ain’t wrong,” Aran says, shrugging. “Kageyama was on fire.” 

Beside him, Ushijima just nods. Genuine in a way that is very flattering. 

Tobio pulls a clean shirt over his head, his face burning. He’s not flustered by the praise out of some kind of modesty or insecurity, because frankly, he knows he’s good. Knows when he’s played well and when he hasn’t. It's just hearing it can be a bit much, especially when he’s not expecting it, especially from his teammates and not just commentators or fans online. 

Atsumu flops onto the bench next to him, shoulder brushing his, skin still damp. 

“Yer famous Tobio-kun, get used to it,” he says, voice light. “You’ve got fans, and they’re thirsty.” A pause, his lips curling into a grin, “Don’t ya worry though, m’still the hottest one on the team.”

Tobio gives him a flat glare, the kind he hopes reads as dismissive, unimpressed, and not fond. 

But he doesn't say anything, not when faced with the smirk on Atsumu’s face. It’s the sort of look Tobio expects to see on his face nine times out of ten, but there’s something behind it. Not jealousy, exactly. Just… that sharp edge he gets when he wants something and doesn’t have it. When he’s trying not to want it too much.

And Tobio knows him well enough by now to see the tension in his shoulders that he thinks he’s hiding. The practiced ease. The way his smile stays just a little too long. But he doesn’t say anything. Just nudges him with his elbow, soft.

“They’re right though,” Atsumu adds, quieter now. “You’re killin’ it.” And Tobio knows he means it, the sincerity shines like gold in the deep browns of his eyes.

Tobio feels heat rise behind his ears again, eyes dropping to the floor, “Shut up.”

Atsumu grins wider, bumps his shoulder again. “Just say thanks, baby.”

Tobio makes a face, but doesn’t move away, just rolls his eyes and steals his water bottle. 

The others are still reading out fan posts in increasingly dramatic voices. Sokolov narrates one about Ushijima’s left arm like it’s Shakespeare, and Bokuto fakes sobs, earning him a half-empty water bottle to the ass. Tobio lets the noise wash over him, lets the warmth of it soak in. The win, the praise, the closeness of a team that’s starting to feel like one.

When Tobio sneaks a glance again later, Atsumu’s still scrolling, phone tilted away not shown to anyone this time, eyes a little softer than usual, smile gentle, not cocky or performative. He doesn’t say anything. Just… looks.

Tobio catches the way he lingers on the comments, watching each one flick past like he’s cataloging them. Like maybe it hurts a little. Like maybe he’s proud. Or something else he doesn’t quite know how to say.

Something Tobio doesn’t know how to decipher.

❧

Tobio can’t seem to escape the fan buzz. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate it. Of course he does. He wants as many people to love volleyball as possible, if his face and hands is how that happens, then that’s just his burden to bear. 

They still call him the King of the Court. It doesn’t bother him anymore, hasn’t since his first nationals. Since Atsumu. Since Hinata recrowning him. 

But the fans get poetic in ways Tobio doesn’t exactly understand but is very grateful for nonetheless. Moon imagery is big with them right now it seems. Miwa likes to send him fan edits with half-poetic captions comparing him to all sorts of celestial bodies. The moon, the stars, gravity itself. 

She sends him one that he sees whilst returning from his morning run. It's a clip of him from an Adler’s warm up a few months ago: chin tilted slightly, arms extended in clean form, the overhead lights casting a silver sheen across his shoulders.

It’s edited with pale blue filters and a string quartet version of a pop song.

The caption reads: “Kageyama Tobio calls the night toward him.” Whatever that means. 

He doesn’t check the fan accounts on purpose. But Miwa sends him one anyway. It’s a freeze-frame of his hands in the air, mid-toss. The light falls on him like moonlight across still water.

MIWA:

Apparently you’re not human.

He groans and tells her to please stop sending me these. 

She responds by sending him another. This one is at least four times more glittery than the last. 

❧

On the day of the first match, there’s a hum in the air before the crowd even fills in. Cameras being tested, sweeping over rows of empty seats. Sneakers squeaking against a still-cool court. Bright white lighting overhead, too clean to feel real, burning like starlight. 

Tobio steps out from the tunnel.

The court opens before him, wide, polished, and full of promise. Glistening and waiting. He breathes in. Deep. Controlled. It’s not nerves, never has been. It’s momentum. Gravity collecting and his feet, a tide preparing to shift in the form of his teammates, warming up. 

The match itself is fast-paced, brutal. The ball arcs across the net again and again, a hurtling, fire-star, vicious and bright, burning through the air like it's searching for something to destroy. Each rally, a clash of gravity and will. Each play, a new star in their constellations, connections flickering and solidifying. 

They make some substitutions, phases and eclipses, shifts in planetary alignment. Aran in for Tsuetate, a smooth yet forceful tidal pull, impossible acceleration; then, in the next set,  Hoshiumi in for Aran, soaring like a meteor above everyone. 

It isn’t flawless, of course it isn’t. There are missed chances, squashed plays. The iron wall of the defence that blocks their efforts, slams them back into their faces. But somehow, even in the chaos, it holds. They hold. 

It ends with Ushijima slamming a kill that ends an excruciating rally and finally, they’ve won. It’s not magic; it's muscle and repetition and trust, but in the moment, it feels celestial. Other-wordly. Tobio feels a little giddy off it. Like gravity has loosened its grip on him for a moment.

From where he’s squished between Bokuto and Hoshiumi, he scans the sideline, catches Atsumu standing near the bench. He’s still in his warm-up jacket, hasn’t played a single rotation tonight either, but he’s clapping now. Grinning, bright and big like always. He’s already saying something to Aran, who’d just subbed out before the final push. They bump fists, casual, friendly, seamless. 

From a distance, it’s perfect. The ideal teammate. The good sport. But it feels dialed up. Too bright around the edges. Like a floodlight thrown on to hide something flickering behind it.

He thinks, briefly, of Atsumu after Karasuno beat Inarizaki all those years ago. Their hands meeting under the net, the tight smirk on his face, how quickly it dissolved to give way to a searing promise of future destruction. It’s not the same as that, nowhere near as hostile, but Tobio can see the outline of his competitiveness; even if Atsumu seems to have shed the petulant teenage anger, that urge to eat, that hunger, will never leave him. 

And Tobio knows what it is to want something badly and have to sit still while someone else takes it. He always wants to be on the court, always wants to keep playing. He remembers how it had affected Sugawara, right at the beginning, and Oikawa too, though in a much different way. But he also knows Atsumu cannot fit into either of those past experiences; he knows how much heavier each play Atsumu has no role in, must weigh on him. 

At the bench, Tobio doesn’t smile, doesn’t gloat. Just collapses onto it and tries to catch his breath, still dizzy from the court. Of course, this means Atsumu appears at his side within moments. He always seems to be in his periphery, in one way or another. 

The older setter tosses him a fresh bottle of water, stares at him with sharp eyes and easy posture, mouth already twitching towards a smirk. “Don’t get smug,” he says, arms crossed loosely, voice caught between dry and teasing. Sharp words, but not mean when he says them like that.

Tobio frowns, tilts his head to one side. Breathes. “I’m not.”

And really, it’s the truth. He’s not smug, or cocky, or gloating. Sometimes, yeah, he is all those things, often when it comes to Atsumu who he loves beating, who brings out something competitive and bright and feral in him that only a select few people do, but right now he’s just floating. Relieved, a little exhausted. A little light-headed. 

When they’re on the same side, competition doesn’t feel like it should be a blade that Tobio should wield. Not unless Atsumu wields it too. That’s the difference, he thinks. 

He isn’t standing across from Atsumu on the net; in some ways, he’s standing back-to-back with him. Atsumu, who wants the same thing he does—and will fight him for it—but still trusts him to cover the court when he can’t. Who never once doubted him out there tonight. Not with a single look, not even from the bench.

If either of them is going to cut, it should be together. Matching blades. Parallel arcs. Callisto and Ganymede, caught in the orbit of something massive and burning, their paths always tethered to the same celestial body. Never quite colliding, never quite separate.

A beat. Atsumu scoffs quietly, though it’s more so an exhale. Almost fond.

“Yeah,” he says, voice soft, edged with something that makes Tobio’s skin prickle, “You wouldn’t know how to be, would ya?”

Atsumu’s not smiling, not exactly. But there’s a warmth there, a softening in his expression. A kind of knowing. Like he’s seeing something Tobio doesn’t even know he’s showing.

Tobio doesn’t reply. Doesn’t know how to. He looks away again, stares at the ceiling like the answer’s hidden somewhere in the glow of the stadium lights. 

The truth is, there isn’t a perfect answer to give. Not in this situation. Not with Atsumu. Every possibility would just come out wrong. Would sound like gloating, or pity, or something else he doesn’t think either of them can afford. 

He wants to say: I’m not sorry for being the starting setter. Because he truly isn’t. He’s worked hard for it every day of his life, has clawed his ways up the ranks, and he’s proud of it like he should be. And a part of him—quiet, cautious, but steady—feels like Atsumu would get it. 

If he said it plainly, if he trusted him with it, Tobio thinks Atsumu would understand it. He might make a face or call him an egotistical bastard, or roll his eyes and smack him with a towel, but in the end he would understand. It’s the same self-assured heat that has always driven the older setter. 

But at the same time, if he said anything along the lines of ‘you’ll get your chance’ or ‘I’m sorry you didn’t play today’, or any other bullshit empty platitude, Atsumu would sneer at him. Even if it wasn’t bullshit or empty, even if Tobio meant it from the bottom of his heart. Because Miya Atsumu doesn’t do easy words, doesn’t do sympathy, doesn’t do softness wrapped in excuses. He’s not as blunt as he was when they were teenagers, but Tobio knows him, knows that harshness still lingers under his skin. 

He still wants to say it, though, maybe just to see the look on Atsumu’s face. He wants to tell him even though he’s never going to be sorry for being the starter, he would’ve liked to see Atsumu play, liked to observe the shine of the stadium lights hitting his hair like a halo, like the sun. 

But most of all, he wants to ask if it bothers Atsumu. All this sitting out. Even if he knows it does, he wants to hear it, maybe understand if it makes the older boy bitter, angry, annoyed. How deep does it run? Is it surface frustration or something that lives in the same place where pride turns sour? And if so, what is he mad at? The coaches? Himself? Tobio? 

Does it cause a rift in whatever the hell they have between them, the way it has happened so many times in Tobio’s life? The fractures that come with imbalance, resentment, rivalry that hardens into something ugly. He doesn’t want that again, not with Atsumu. For some reason, the mere thought of it feels like drowning, like stars splitting apart when they shouldn’t. 

He doesn’t want to stand across from Atsumu and have something between them that they can’t pass cleanly over the net. And he hopes that, somehow, Atsumu can read what he isn’t saying.

And it really does feel that way, when Atsumu’s words go soft again, when his eyes observe Tobio with that subdued warmth, when he says things like that so fondly. 

“Yer doin’ the overthinking face again.” Atsumu mutters, breaking the silence with a smirk that’s half-teasing and half-something way too soft to place. There’s no edge to it. No resentment.

Tobio blinks, caught off guard. His mouth drops open but he’s unsure of what to say. Then, Atsumu pats his head lightly, ruffles his sweat-matted hair.

“Relax, baby. I mean it. Game’s over.”

There it is again: the word, the tone. That smirk that doesn’t quite reach Atsumu’s eyes, the precarious feeling that Tobio can’t swallow down. He can’t tell if it’s a joke anymore. Or worse, he can’t tell if he wants it to be one.

❧

The next morning, the summer air is thick with early heat, the concrete pavement already beginning to shimmer under the rising sun. Tobio’s routine run takes him further than usual, his legs restless, a part of him keyed up. 

There was an early morning sluggishness to the city when he’d set off, quiet edges, streets clean and uncluttered, but by the time he’s done and rounding back to the hotel, life’s started to stir, more cars on the road, more people on the sidewalks, a cyclist zipping past with her earbuds in, her face turned to the dun. All of it, the din of the day building like a slow crescendo.

There’s sweat slicking the back of his neck, his shirt clinging to his spine, breathing steady and controlled, and when he turns the final corner, he nearly barrels into a familiar figure stepping out of a vending machine alcove: Atsumu.

Tobio jerks to a halt, taking in the older setter. His hair is tousled and damp at the ends like he’d just rolled out of bed and splashed his face with water, tank top slung loose, a bottle of something cold and neon-coloured pressed to one of his cheeks.

He blinks once, owlish and slow in a way Atsumu never is, eyes scanning Tobio from head to toe. Then, of course, he’s grinning, lips settling into that lazy, unbothered half-smirk he always seems to wear.

“It’s six thirty, ya freak,” he says, like it's a greeting. His voice is scratchy and sleep-heavy. Not mean.

Tobio doesn’t respond, just scowls faintly as he catches his breath and walks past him into the hotel lobby. He hears Atsumu laugh behind him, soft and stupid, and somehow it doesn’t make him feel irritated at all.

❧

The bus to their second match in Aichi is idling by the time the entire team arrives downstairs. Ushijima is already seated when Tobio climbs aboard, his posture still rigid even when he’s relaxed, gaze cast out of the window like he’s analysing the landscape. Tobio sits next to him, and eventually the bus fills up: Hoshiumi and Bokuto a few seats ahead of them, voices too loud for how early it is, the coaches and managers and trainers at the front, Sokolov and Hweijima behind them. Across the aisle, Atsumu plops into the seat next to Aran, his knees spread obnoxiously wide as he animatedly regales his ex-ace with a story, accent more pronounced.

Tobio keeps his eyes shut most of the ride, one headphone in as he listens to commentary on the Brazil vs Italy match that’s going on today. Beside him, Ushijima seems to be doing the same thing, the video pulled up on his phone, the pair of them in companionable silence except for a few comments about plays here and there. 

At some point, maybe an hour in, someone starts a ridiculous debate about who on the team would survive a zombie apocalypse. Half of the players are asleep, heads leaning against windows or slumped on seats, the quiet hum of the bus a gentle lull. Tobio’s got one ear on the conversation, listening as the discussion devolves into mock arguments and courageous scenarios about who would hide or fight or get eaten first. 

Atsumu is campaigning for Aran being the one with the best chances, but Bokuto, entirely earnest, insists that he would survive without a doubt. “I’m like a fortress, the zombies just don’t stand a chance.” 

Ushijima shrugs. “Strength isn’t everything.”

This sentiment, Hoshiumi seems to agree with, claiming that his ‘top notch ability to sneak around’ would get him through the worst of it unnoticed. Then, of course, when he's in the clear he’d find some way to destroy hordes single-handedly, somehow.  

“Yeah but how?” Aran presses, goaded into it by the nonsensical points of Hoshiumi’s half baked plans. 

Hoshiumi shrugs, “Instinct.” 

Atsumu leans in from the other side, “Fuck yer instinct, I’ve seen Wild Zero, the real answer is grenades, lasers and rock ‘n roll.” 

Tobio wrinkles his nose as laughter bubbles up around the bus, one of the coaches shaking his head, others grinning wide at Atsumu’s absurd but undeniably entertaining take. It seems like the debate is over, but then Atsumu reaches across the aisle, and tugs Tobio’s headphones out. 

“What d’you think, Tobio-kun? Gonna out run ‘em?” 

Tobio blinks, caught off guard, rubbing his ear where the sudden silence settles in. He shoots Atsumu a sharp look; half annoyed, half amused, “I’m sure I could if I tried, but that’s probably only part of it.”

Atsumu grins, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Yeah? What’s the rest then?”

“Strategy,” he says, shrugging. “Maybe teamwork. Like in matches.” 

Atsumu blinks. The others seem to do it in time with him.

“Teamwork against zombies?”

“Yeah, it makes sense. We cover each other’s blind spots. It’s like volleyball, formations and communication. We’ll have strategy breaks whenever we can.” Tobio says, as if this is a completely normal sentence to say while discussing the end of civilisation. Beside him, Ushijima nods like he’s finally found an outlook he can get behind. 

There’s a brief pause, and then Atsumu snorts. It isn’t long before Aran and Hoshiumi join in, whilst Bokuto sits back and seriously considers what Tobio has said.

“Jesus christ,” Atsumu wheezes, “Yer thinkin’ of the apocalypse in volleyball terms. ‘Course ya fuckin’ are. Probably would call for a quick set when the horde comes swarmin’ in.”

Tobio frowns, unbothered, “It might work.”

“HOW?????”

“Dunno. But it might.”

That sends the bus over the edge again: their manager coughing to cover her laughter, Aran with his head buried into his hoodie like it’ll stop his wheezing, Sokolov, now awake, sleepily trying to figure out what has everyone in stitches. 

“Y’know, if you take the apocalypse as seriously as you take volleyball, I think you might survive,” Atsumu says eventually, the words pushed out between heaving breaths as he tries to collect himself, “Maybe I should be stickin’ with ya. Keep ya like a lucky charm.”

Tobio raises an eyebrow, “I thought you said the answer was grenades.”

“Yeah, but grenades run out,” Atsumu says, grinning. “You? You could probably glare the zombies out of existence.”

Tobio rolls his eyes, though his ears have gone a little pink.

Ushijima and Bokuto seem to agree, the both of them declaring that they would happily work with Tobio in the event of a zombie apocalypse. Aran is mostly just done with the conversation and slumps in his seat.

“See?” Atsumu crows, nudging him. “You’re gonna be the weird but inexplicably successful post-apocalypse team mascot. I’ll be your handsome, charming captain who saves you heroically in act three.”

“You wouldn’t make it to act three,” Tobio says, automatically.

“And what gives ya that impression? M’clearly fit to survive.”

Tobio clears his throat, fiddling with his earbud wire. “You’d be too loud,” he says, “They’d hear you coming and eat you first.”

Hoshiumi bursts into laughter so hard he almost drops his phone, and Atsumu throws his head back in delight. “Oh, but I could be loud but useful! ” he declares. “Keep the hordes away!"

That is when Aran perks up again: “Ain’t the love interest chick in Wild Zero called Tobio too?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Atsumu is a little redder in the face than he was before, Tobio chalks it up to his earlier dramatics. “Huh,” he says, thoughtful, fully settled in his seat again. “I’d forgotten that’s her name.”

Aran shrugs, a little too casual when he looks up at Atsumu from where he’s resting his head against the window, “And since ya wanna be the main character so bad… Guess yer Tobio’s love interest if the apocalypse ever comes.”

Atsumu doesn’t miss a beat. “Bein’ Tobio-kun’s apocalypse assigned love interest couldn’t be the worst gig in the world.” He turns to Tobio with that godforsaken, lazy grin, a spark in his eyes now. “You’d keep me alive, yeah?”

Tobio rolls his eyes. “I've changed my mind, I hope I die in act three.”

Atsumu leans a little closer, voice dropping just enough. “C’mon. I’d make the end of the world fun. Bit of chaos, bit of charm. You’d be into it.”

Tobio levels him with a flat look, but he can feel the amusement tugging in the curve of his mouth. It irritates him how all the stupid shit Atsumu says can somehow make him smile, can somehow make his chest tighter and his skin warmer. 

“I would sacrifice you to the horde.”

“Nah,” Atsumu says, smirking. “Ya wouldn’t. ‘Cause deep down…” He reaches over, taps Tobio’s chest. “You’re soft on me.”

“Deep down,” Tobio mutters, “you’re delusional.”

Atsumu just shrugs and sinks back into his seat, voice smug and low. “Keep tellin’ yourself that, Tobio-kun. I’d win ya over.”

Tobio just presses his headphones in again. Unfortunately, they don’t block out the warmth in his cheeks.

❧

They lose the second match. It’s not a catastrophic collapse, nothing dramatic like a star falling to Earth in a blaze of failure. Just one of those games where rhythm never quite arrives. Tonight, Italy is just better than they are, a steady constellation against their scattered lights. 

Tobio stays calm. Collected. Solid. The gravity they need him to be, the steady centre of their star system. But beneath the surface, frustration brews and not just in him. It swells in the entire team: they’re learning the true cost of cohesion, the necessary fumbles to expose the gaps in their formations, the wayward angles where their orbit falls apart.

It hits Atsumu worst of all, at least that is what it seems like to Tobio. He can see the way his frustration simmers from the furrow of his thick brows, the mean pull of his mouth. For now, his annoyance is quiet and sharp, like a waning crescent hidden in shadow, and Tobio knows it is because Atsumu thinks he could’ve helped. Could’ve shifted the tide if he was given the shot. 

It’s a useless what if scenario, but Tobio knows he would be thinking the same thing in Atsumu’s place. 

It isn’t until later, in the locker rooms, after Coach has spoken to them all—not harsh, not yet, not so early in the tournament—that the tightness in Atsumu’s shoulders dissipates. 

Tobio’s sitting alone on a bench, contemplating. Not punishing himself, just cataloguing. Trying to figure out what went wrong, what slipped, where the rhythm cracked. That’s when he spies Atsumu leaning against the wall, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes focused somewhere off to the side. 

He doesn’t say anything, not even when Aran comes over and mumbles something that only the two of them can hear, but his jaw loosens a little.

And Tobio wonders, a little uselessly, what Aran said to get through to Atsumu so effortlessly.

When they head back to the hotel, Tobio thinks about asking Atsumu, but he cannot bring himself to break the tight silence that fills the night. 

Like always, it falls into Atsumu’s hands. 

“You were good.” He says, voice even. Not bitter, not fawning, just flat. Truthful. 

It’s not something Tobio needs him to say, just something Atsumu offers voluntarily, like he’s the one who needs to get it off his chest.

“I just—” He cuts himself off, kicks a pebble and sends it hurtling down the dark night road. “I wish I got to clean the mess myself.”

And that’s it.

He doesn’t say I should be out there. Doesn’t say I want what you have. But it’s there. Not envy, not bitterness. Just wanting, star-bright and constant. 

Tobio nods once. Doesn’t say I’m sorry; doesn’t say you will next time. Just says, “I know.”

They walk the rest of the way in silence again, the moon following them all the way.

❧

Match three is a similar sort of disaster. 

In the shadows of his room, Tobio cannot sleep. He’s gone through all the motions, charted his way through his evening routine: shower, brush teeth, stretch, turn his phone face down on his side table and close his eyes. Nothing has worked, his body still buzzes like it's caught between two different pulls, like something gravitational inside him is off-kilter and unfinished, like there’s a match tomorrow; there isn’t, just a recovery day, but his body doesn’t seem to realise that. 

Outside, somewhere past the hotel walls, a siren wails in the distance, warbling like the lonely howl of something exiled from its axis. Faint silver glow bleeds in through the gaps of the blinds, diluted moonlight blurred by the city haze, and Tobio lies still and rigid, staring up at the ceiling like it might morph into the night sky. He’s caught between the limbo between relaxed and alert, and everything is too quiet, too loud, the air pulsing with a noise that cannot be granted a name: just a low cosmic hum threading through his chest.

The door to the room clicks softly.

Tobio doesn’t sit up, assumes Ushijima’s come to turn in for the night, but when he turns his head, it is Atsumu he sees slip inside, hoodie half-zipped, wet hair sticking out from under the hood. 

“Knew you’d be up,” he murmurs, padding his way in and dropping down onto the bed across the room like it was his.

Tobio frowns, “Not your room, Atsumu-san.”

“Ain’t it?” Atsumu peels his hoodie off and tosses it onto the floor, shrugging. “Guess I’m sleep-walkin’.”

Tobio watches him flop back onto the mattress, arms folded behind his head like he means to stay. His damp hair leaves a faint halo on the pillow, and the moonlight slices across the bed, catching his profile in a soft glow. 

“You’re going to get the sheets wet.” He says, only to be ignored. “Atsumu-san.”

“Tobio-kun,” Atsumu mimics in a way that makes Tobio very sympathetic for Osamu. He takes a moment to adjust himself under the blanket, “Swapped rooms with Ushijima. Said Bokkun snores too much and I couldn’t spend another day in there.”

Tobio blinks, “Bokuto-san snores?”

“Nah, but Ushijima doesn’t need to know that,” Atsumu grins, “He just handed me his keycard ‘n said ‘Understood. Proper rest is important.’”

Tobio almost laughs at his awful impression of Ushijima. He shifts onto his side so can face Atsumu properly, eyes catching the familiar lines of his face. The cut of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the way his damp hair sticks to his forehead in uneven tufts. It paints a homely picture, one he has seen so many times now, and yet not: Atsumu, close, barefoot, tired, coming into his space like it’s nothing and yet not touching. 

“You couldn't sleep?”

“Didn’t wanna be alone tonight.” Atsumu glances over, his skin rosy, flushed with the kind of pink that crawls under the eyes. He adds quickly, “Not like that.”

For a moment, Tobio doesn’t understand what he’s getting at. His brows draw in, confused, and Atsumu just sighs, giving him a flat look that says: Seriously? 

Meaning rushes in quickly then. 

He blinks, understanding now why the shape of the moment felt wrong. They’ve done this before, but not exactly like this. Familiar hands. A shared bed. A history pressed into sheets and skin. He doesn’t think they’ve ever shared a hotel room unless they were going to fuck, but the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind until Atsumu brought it up. 

“Ah,” Tobio says softly. “Okay.”

Atsumu continues, trying to sound nonchalant but failing because Tobio knows what he actually sounds like when he doesn’t care, and it isn’t this, “Figured you were up here thinking about stats and talking yourself into a headache.”

“I wasn’t,” Tobio lies.

“Sure you weren’t, baby.”

Tobio doesn’t rise to it, rolls his eyes. His chest warms anyway. He lets the moment settle like dust in a still room, or starlight on skin. Watches as Atsumu sighs, his gaze never leaving the ceiling as he works his jaw. The air conditioner hums. Someone down the hall laughs too loud.

“It ain’t you,” Atsumu murmurs suddenly. “This shit m’feeling. It ain’t about you.”

Tobio doesn’t say anything, throat going tight. 

“I’m mad at a fuckton of stuff, but I ain’t mad at you.” 

“I know,” He says, quietly. 

There’s a pause. The room hums around them, the kind of silence that isn't empty, just waiting.

“I want it so bad I could scream sometimes,” Atsumu mutters. “I trained just as fucking hard, and I know we’re different, good at different shit but the coaches treat me like I’m yer scrappy understudy sometimes and I just—” He stops, breathes out, jaw clenching. “Doesn’t matter. ‘Cause I see you out there, doing it right, and I feel… proud, and pissed off all at once, because I wanted the fucking shot. I wanted to set for this team. I’ve wanted it since before you even got here, but I feel useless.” 

Tobio doesn’t look away, swallows. “You’re not—”

“Don’t patronise me.”

That lands hard. Clean. No room for misreading.

Tobio straightens slightly. Not flinching. Just grounding himself like he would before a serve. Steady. Still.

“I wasn’t going to,” he says.

Atsumu finally turns to look at him, eyes sharp, jaw tight, cheeks flushed with something that’s not just anger—it’s hurt, too. “Then don’t talk to me like I’m some charity case for not playing.”

Tobio blinks. His voice stays level, he makes sure of it. “You think that’s something I’d do?”

Atsumu doesn’t answer. His mouth opens, then closes again. The silence presses in, thick with heat and tension and everything they’re not saying.

“I don’t pity you,” Tobio continues, slower this time, measured. “You can hold your own, you don’t need me to. I just get it. If it had been you starting, I’d be pissed too. But it’s just the lineup that fits right now. That’s all it is.”

“You don’t get pissed.”

“I do. I just don’t throw water bottles.”

Atsumu snorts and it is a terribly dry sound. “You should. It’s cathartic.” He lies there in silence for a moment, eyes closed, lashes dark against his skin in the faint light, exhaling through his nose, sounding weary down to his bones. “And I know. I know it’s just the lineup. It’s just—fuck. I hate this part. The sitting. The watching.”

And Tobio gets it. Of course he does. Being denied the chance to play is his worst nightmare. A quiet hell.

The silence begins to stretch again. But it isn’t empty, something unnamed lives in the shadows. Tobio watches Atsumu for a moment longer. The way he looks in the dim light, the subtle movement of his chest as he breathes. His fingers itch to reach out. To touch. But it doesn’t feel like that kind of night. Or maybe it does, but they’re both too worn thin to follow it through. Maybe the edges need to be softer. Less about release, more about recognition.

Atsumu’s breathing is almost even. Eyes closed. One arm flung over his forehead like he’s pretending not to exist for a minute.

There is a strange, amorphous blend of words lodged in Tobio's throat. A burn that will not stop, that is pressing against his gums, his jaw, his teeth. It has his mouth opening, has him speaking before he can stop himself. 

“You’re amazing.”

It hangs in the air for a long moment. Tobio’s face feels hot. 

Atsumu huffs out something like a laugh. Bitter. “Don’t be a dick."

And that annoys the younger setter. He glares at Atsumu from across the room, mouth twisting into a scowl, “I’m not being a dick. I’m telling you the truth.”

Atsumu makes a noise, like he’s about to deflect, laugh it off, turn it into a joke or maybe start a proper argument, but nothing comes out. He just stares at the ceiling, the fight going out of him. 

Tobio takes the opportunity presented to him, still unable to bite down the urge to speak, “I’ve always thought you’re amazing, even if I’ve not told you. I’ve known it since the first time I played against you, all those years ago at nationals.” He says, voice even. Honest. He means it from the bottom of his heart. 

He remembers the All Youth Training Camp, remembers the cruel glee in Atsumu’s eyes when he’d first called Tobio a goody-two-shoes, compares it to the sharp, galvanic rush that went through him when he watched Atsumu bend himself in half to set with all ten fingers, for nothing other than the simple reason of being a setter. To this day, that pure, reckless dedication still lights a fire inside Tobio’s chest, resonating deep and true; he is still grateful he got to play a setter like Atsumu. That he gets to play him even now. 

“You reminded me what being a setter could be.”

Atsumu finally turns again, facing him. His eyes are shadowed in the dark, but something’s flickering there. Not quite smiling. Not mocking. He has softened, just a fraction, like Tobio’s words have settled somewhere inside him. Dug beneath the surface and found a place to settle. 

He shifts slightly, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders like a shield and a comfort all at once. Then he looks away again, jaw tight, like he’s angry at himself. Frustrated by whatever it is that Tobio’s honesty has stirred up.

“You can’t just say that shit like it means nothin’,” he says eventually. Tight, brittle. 

Tobio sighs, angry but equally as tired, unable to fight it: “I don’t know how many times I have to say it for you to believe it, Atsumu-san.” He pauses, focuses on the shape of Atsumu in the opposite bed, tense under the blanket. “It means a lot. I meant it. I mean all of it.”

Atsumu goes still. Completely, utterly still, like something in him has locked up. Seconds pass. Then more. A full minute, maybe. Maybe longer.

And just when Tobio thinks that might be it. That maybe Atsumu has shut down or shut him out completely—

A rustle of sheets.

A blanket thrown off with too much force.

The sound of bare feet hitting the floor, fast and low and decisive.

Tobio doesn’t move. Just watches as Atsumu crosses the room without ceremony, eyes dark, jaw clenched. He doesn’t ask permission. Just pushes the edge of Tobio’s blanket aside and climbs in, grumbling under his breath the whole time. The bed shifts under the weight, too narrow for this kind of thing, and Atsumu elbows him once on purpose before settling next to him, their faces close. 

“You piss me off,” Atsumu hisses.

Tobio exhales through his nose, slow, and a little annoyed but also a little amused. “You’re in my bed.”

“Shut up. You’re so fucking annoying.”

And it makes Tobio chuckle, soft and sudden. The first laugh to actually leave him all night, and he can feel that the tension in Atsumu’s shoulders is finally gone when he rests his hands over him. 

“You’re very stubborn, Atsumu-san.”

Atsumu snorts, but it’s laced with something warmer this time, less defensive. “You’re the one who won’t shut up.”

“You’re not very good with compliments either.”

“Tobio, I swear to god—”

“It’s just not what—”

Atsumu very suddenly rolls over so Tobio is caged between his arms and smashes their mouths together. He kisses with a ruinous fervour, unkind and devoid of mercy, the taste of him like minty-fresh toothpaste. Tobio gasps, half-surprise, half-arousal, completely mindless when he kisses back, confused about what exactly has brought this on. 

After what feels like an age, Atsumu pulls away, breathing heavily. He collapses beside Tobio once more, smirking like he’s truly pleased with himself. Feral. Eyes glinting with satisfaction. 

“G’night, Tobio-kun.”

Tobio breaths out shallowly, blinking slowly like the kiss hasn’t rattled him to his bones. He shifts onto his back, feigning casual. He’s not sure it’s believable with how stiff he feels, his whole body still braced for something that isn’t coming.

“Is that what you think will help me sleep?” he says flatly.

Atsumu huffs a laugh. “Didn’t hear ya complaining.”

“I didn’t have time to,” Tobio replies, deadpan.

Atsumu doesn’t bite back this time. Just shifts in closer, throwing an arm over Tobio’s middle, his hand splayed warm and solid across his ribs. He pulls himself in without hesitation, their bodies aligning in the quiet like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Tobio stays still, uncertain, but he doesn’t move away. He’s always been unsure with touch—how to ask for it, how to return it—but he likes it. Likes how brazenly Atsumu goes about it, like there’s no question of whether he’s allowed. 

Atsumu presses his face against Tobio’s shoulder, breath soft and steady. “Shut yer eyes, baby,” he murmurs. Low, almost absent, but real.

And Tobio doesn’t hesitate. He lets his eyes fall closed, his body sink just slightly into the warmth pressed against his side.

The city hums faintly outside the window, but here, in the narrow bed and the hush of night, everything finally goes quiet.

❧

The bus to Osaka leaves very early in the morning. 

Tobio goes on his routine run before Atsumu gets up, and when he gets back the older setter is at breakfast, so he doesn’t see him until the team loads their bags into the undercarriage and boards, all of them muted. Half-sleepy, half-depressed from their losses.

On board, Bokuto slips in his earbuds. Hoshiumi drags his hoodie over his head and takes a nap against Sokolov’s shoulder, Ushijima is in a deep conversation with Aran, both of them wearing severe frowns. Even the staff move slowly, voices hushed.

Tobio settles in a seat in the middle of the bus, resting his head against the window and when Atsumu slides in beside him without asking, hoodie pulled up, phone held loose in one hand, it almost feels inevitable. Like the simple working of gravity, of the orbital pull. 

He knocks one ankle against Tobio’s shin, a grounding, warm point of touch. 

At one point, with the bus heading down the highway, Atsumu rests his head on Tobio’s shoulder and says, “Wake me if I start snorin’, yeah?” 

“I won’t.”

“Dick,” Atsumu mumbles, soft and already half-asleep.

Tobio looks down at him, and feels some strange awful warmth treacle in his gut. He lets his head fall back against the seat and closes his eyes.

They don’t say another word for the rest of the ride. Not about the previous night, nor about the match in two days. They don’t talk about anything. They just sit there shoulder to shoulder, in a silence that doesn’t need filling. Companionable, comfortable.

Callisto and Ganymede. 

Somehow, that feels like enough.

❧

The team trains later that day, the sounds of their movements softer. Not lazy or defeated, just purposeful. Resistance bands, controlled stretching, footwork drills in pairs. 

Tobio works with Hweijima, tossing light balls back and forth, timing their breathing to each movement.

“You okay Kageyama-kun?” Hewijima asks after a while, most of the team wrapping up.

“Yeah.”

It’s all that needs to be said. 

Atsumu is across the court working with Bokuto, both of them laughing too loudly, Bokuto tossing the ball deliberately just out of reach to make Atsumu lunge for it.

He sticks his tongue out when he sees them watching. “Don’t judge me, Tobio-kun.”

Tobio rolls his eyes, but he’s amused. Of course he is. It seems he always is. 

The coaches make them watch the footage of their losses, analysing. Offer some rather harsh commentary for everyone. When they dismiss them, no one feels content. That is how they all end up in Sokolov and Tsuetate's room, huddled around the telly, streaming the footage again. 

They watch it twice. Slow it down in critical places. Call out missteps. Tobio zeroes in on his own sets, on every small delay, every shift in tempo. Each one a pinprick to the gut. Sokolov groans at mistimed blocks, Bokuto practically sulks at his missed service. 

They don’t pick at each other, because it’s just teammates now. Not trainers and coaches. This is theirs, the team’s. It makes the silence afterward feel more like shared weight than isolation.

Then, Hoshiumi tosses a packet of sweets across the table and Bokuto opens a can of soda with unnecessary flair. Ushijima and Tobio grab some yoghurt shakes from the nearest vending machine, and when they return, Sokolov and Atsumu are muttering about ordering food from a place that delivers until one am. 

The energy shifts. They watch four or five classic matches, old wins, passing around bags of snacks and cheap drinks. Tsuetate fishes out a pack of cards from his bag and they play a half-hearted game of poker. It’s sloppy and half the team cheats and it is exactly what they needed. 

No one tries to say “it’s fine” or “we’ll do better next time.” They just relax, together.

❧

Tobio feels like they’re going to win half-way through the third set. 

It hits him in a lull between rallies, not during a high or a point gained, but in the way the team exhales in unison after a long play, sweat-soaked and sharp-eyed, no one speaking, no one flinching. It’s not certainty, not arrogance. Just a quiet, steady hum behind his ribs. Like gravity shifting. Like stars aligning behind clouds he hadn’t realised were there.

The rhythm is there. Real, this time. Not frantic, not desperate. Just theirs.

It is not like their opponents are pushovers. Not even close, they strike back during the set, claw at them. Fast, technical, relentless. The second set was point-for-point until they took it from under Japan’s nose. By a hair. 

Then, Coach switched up the rotations. 

Atsumu came on.

No fanfare. No drama. Just the quiet acknowledgement from the coach, a nod, and Atsumu pulling off his jacket like he’s been waiting the whole tournament to do this. Tobio slapped his shoulder as he stepped off. Atsumu flashed a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. 

The third and fourth sets shift. Not radically, because Tobio’s already tightened the team’s rhythm, but there’s a looseness to it now. Atsumu brings heat, swagger, that fraction-of-a-second chaos that makes hitters grin mid-air. Bokuto thrives, burns hot in streaks, like a comet veering just close enough to catch breath and awe. Ushijima hits like gravity, sure and merciless. Aran lands three straight off Atsumu’s no-look back sets and hoots like he’s electric.

Tobio watches from the bench, hands loose in his lap, posture tight.

They’re going to win.

And they do. It’s a clean, beautiful fifth set that ends with Bokuto screaming himself hoarse after a line shot that nearly splits the floor. Then the scoreboard blinks. Game.

For a moment, none of them move.

Then Atsumu whoops so loud he startles the camera crew. Bokuto picks him up, spins him like he weighs nothing, the rest of the team rushing them like a wave crashing against the shore, swallowing them up in their huddle. Shouts and limbs and jerseys and disbelief.

Tobio lets the noise wash over him like wind across the dark sky; he doesn’t smile right away, but when he does, it’s slow, and it stays. They’ve won. Not through luck. Not through raw force. But through alignment. Through sweat and silence and something that feels like faith.

And in the end, after the coaches and the rest of the bench have let go of Tobio, it is Atsumu who is the first to reach him. He doesn’t cheer, doesn’t clap him on the shoulder or squeeze him into a hug. He just stands in front of him, sweat-slick and grinning, teeth flashing like white-hot nova. 

His skin is flushed, hair damp and sticking to his forehead, jersey askew like he’s just survived a storm. His grin is crooked, unrepentant, every inch the chaos he brought to the court. There’s a red mark on his cheek from where he hit the floor during a save, but he looks like he could play ten more sets without breaking.

“Well,” he says, breathless, chest still heaving, “Ain’t ya gonna say I was amazing?” 

Tobio’s mouth twitches, equal parts fond and exasperated at the call back. He doesn’t look up right away. Just wipes his face with a towel, slow and deliberate, before finally lifting his eyes. 

“You’re insufferable.” He says, dry as dust. 

But even that does not wipe the smile off Atsumu’s face, if anything it bolsters it. He wears it like a victory, smug and shining.

“You love it, Tobio-kun.”

Tobio doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. “I tolerate it.”

Atsumu throws his head back and laughs, entirely disbelieving, like the absurdity of affection dressed up as disdain is the funniest thing he’s heard all week. Then he steps in closer, still grinning. 

“Good enough,” he says, knocking his knuckles against Tobio’s arm, “Look at us, makin’ it work.”

And that, Tobio knows, he can’t argue with. It really is pretty amazing.

❧

After the post-match interviews and debriefs with the coaches, the team considers going out for a meal, but everyone is too exhausted to dress up and do anything that requires leaving the hotel. Instead, they end up crowding into Bokuto’s room, sprawled across the beds and the floor, shoes kicked off haphazardly by the door. They order an irresponsible amount of food, fried chicken, rice bowls, enough sides for a small army, which Bokuto argues, they technically are. Aran just screws his face up in genuine, bone-deep exasperation. 

Whilst they wait for the food, Ushijima and Tsuetate head out to grab some drinks for everyone, and Bokuto, stretching out across the floor like a starfish, flicks on the telly and channel surfs until he lands on some American film with far too many explosions. Tobio still watches with mild fascination.  

When it does arrive, they eat like they haven’t seen real food in days, passing containers back and forth between them. Atsumu tosses different cans of chūhai, and soda to everyone. Tobio sips slowly on a can of cream soda chūhai, watching Hoshiumi play rock paper scissors with Atsumu over the last can of plum Strong Zero. Atsumu loses and curls up on the floor like a pathetic, but endearing, wreck. 

Eventually, no one is paying attention to the movie, and at that point Bokuto suggests games, which maybe someone should’ve stopped him from doing, but they’re all half-tipsy off too many cans and post-game adrenaline. 

It starts off with two truths and a lie. Then charades, then mafia. They play poker and Bokuto loses half the money in his wallet and his t-shirt. Tobio watches it go down, slumped on one of the beds with Aran who details to him and Ushijima a bluff so reckless it somehow worked on everyone except Sokolov, who’s already halfway through his victory lap around the room.

Someone tries to re-deal the cards but Bokuto’s in the corner dramatically mourning the loss of his shirt, now worn triumphantly by Hoshiumi, who looks far too pleased with himself.

Atsumu sprawls sideways across the floor, half his face pressed into the carpet, grinning like he’s barely holding it together. “This is the worst team of criminals I’ve ever seen,” he mumbles into the rug.

“We’re volleyball players,” Tobio says flatly.

“Exactly,” Atsumu says, flipping onto his back. “Too honest. Just let Sokolov-san rob us blind.”

Then, when some of them start dispersing: “Truth or dare,” Bokuto declares with a grin that should be regulated.

Hoshiumi’s eyes spark instantly. Aran sighs. Atsumu stretches with dangerous intent. Tobio is already regretting staying. He should’ve escaped with Tsuetate. 

“Let’s keep it simple,” Hoshiumi says, eyes gleaming. “No chicken-outs. You pass, you do one hundred push-ups. No shoes, boxers only. On the balcony.”

“Cowards get exiled,” Bokuto agrees, solemnly.

The first few rounds are tame, easy. Light laughter and harmless teasing. Even Ushijima is involved, calmly answering when asked to choose between Bokuto and Aran as his preferred teammate for a desert island scenario. (“Aran,” he says, without hesitation. “He’s more practical.” Bokuto looks wounded, but only for five seconds before declaring he’d make a better raft.)

The mood is bright, ridiculous, warm in that way that only happens after hard-won victory and shared exhaustion. Someone’s halfway into a dare involving interpretive dance when it circles around again. 

Aran chooses truth and gets asked about his worst hookup, to which Atsumu starts cracking up before he’s even started describing it. Hoshiumi chooses dare and has to send some weird text that Tobio doesn’t fully understand to his high school coach. He does it without any hesitation. 

Sokolov has somehow avoided being picked until Bokuto points directly at him.

“Truth,” Sokolov says.

Atsumu asks if he’s ever been in love, which results in an abnormally long pause.

“Once,” he says. Doesn’t elaborate. The room quiets for a second.

Then Bokuto claps and says, “Okay, Tsum-Tsum’s turn!”

Atsumu groans. “Don’t call me that in front of the children, they'll get ideas,” he says, gesturing vaguely at Hoshiumi, who flips him off without looking up. He picks dare.

Bokuto pauses, clearly trying to think, which is dangerous for everyone involved.

Then: “Tell us about your first oral experience.” He waggles his eyebrows like this is peak subtlety. “Y’know. Receiving.”

Hoshiumi cackles, Aran facepalms, muttering something that sounds like ‘what are we, twelve?’. 

Atsumu, to his credit, doesn’t flinch. Just grins.

“Easy,” he says like he’s recounting a play-by-play. “It was summer camp before second year in high school and there was a girl’s volleyball team from another school at Inarizaki. Their libero took an interest in me, let’s say.” 

Aran wrinkles his nose, “Ain’t that when ya gave yourself a concussion and weren’t allowed to play for the rest of the camp?”

Atsumu flushes, “Yeah which is why it sucked.”

The room bursts into laughter again, and Tobio silently sips on his drink, trying not to actually think about it, trying not to look at Atsumu. His own first experience didn’t happen until his third year, but it was similar, only there was no concussion and it was a boy not a girl. 

When it is eventually his turn, Tobio picks truth, too lazy to get up for a dare. They’ve cycled through most of the stupid and dirtier ones, and most of them are a little too tipsy to even pay attention to what’s being said. Hoshiumi opens his mouth to say something, but then stops himself, rubbing his chin and mumbling that Tobio would probably just pass on it. 

Eventually, Atsumu groans, seemingly fed up with how long this is taking. He doesn’t even lift his head up from where he’s curled up on the carpet by the telly: “Describe yer first kiss, Tobio-kun. Who, what, when, where?”

Tobio goes still. A flood of memories, a younger, harsher Atsumu pinning him to a wall, chapped lips pressed bruisingly to his. The few of them that are still functioning and not sleep-ruined are staring at him expectantly.

“Pretty mild, Miya.” Hoshiumi complains. “I expected better.” 

Atsumu flips him off.

Tobio keeps his face even, doesn’t blink. “Pass,” he says quietly.

The group groans in unison.

“You can’t pass!”

Bokuto exclaims, “Balcony push ups!” 

Tobio is already shrugging off his t-shirt and joggers. Calm. Unbothered. He walks to the sliding glass door of their hotel balcony, socks silent on the carpet, opens it, and drops down onto his hands without a word. It’s a little nippy, but it doesn’t bother him.

Aran, Bokuto, Ushijima and Hoshiumi stand over him the entire time, Hoshiumi recording the whole thing and Ushijima praising his form. 

“Holy shit,” Bokuto whispers, reverent. “Kageyama’s so cool.”

“Or repressed,” Aran mutters.

“Does this mean we know who it is…?” Hoshiumi muses, but Tobio doesn’t say a word, just counts his push ups.

Eventually, when he nears the end, he lifts his gaze enough to look in through the window, surprised to see Atsumu already watching him. There’s a flicker. Barely-there recognition. A moment suspended in breath. Atsumu’s expression shifts. He doesn’t say anything. Not then. But Tobio knows.

❧

Tobio goes back to his room around three am. He collapses on his bed as soon as he gets in, but he’s not even closed his eyes before it opens again and Atsumu shuffles his way in.

“Room swap?” he says, like it’s casual.

Tobio doesn’t ask who he lied to this time. Doesn’t care. He just nods.

Atsumu shuts the door behind him. Doesn’t say much else. Just toes off his socks, drops the key card on the bedside table and pulls back the covers. He slides in next to Tobio like he’s always belonged there, like there isn’t another bed in the room. Like they’ve been doing this forever, not one time three days ago.

They don’t speak. The light from the hallway flickers off, and the room is cast into darkness and silverlight. Tobio stares at the ceiling for a long moment, heartbeat steady. Not racing, not calm. Just aware.

Atsumu settles with a sigh, sheets rustling with his movements. Their shoulders brush. He doesn’t move away. Tobio doesn’t either.

Minutes pass. The silence expanding, but hollow, unfinished. 

Then, barely above a whisper: “You really passed on that question?”

Tobio turns his head slightly, “You still know the answer.”

Atsumu shifts, a flicker of something like embarrassment flashing across his face. “…Didn’t know I was your first kiss.”

“You couldn’t tell?”

“I thought it just surprised ya,” he rubs one of his wrists, voice low and a little awkward. “Ya held yer own.”

Tobio shrugs, “I’m a quick learner.” It’s not cocky or smug, just a fact. Stated with the same certainty he wields when staring down a serve.

Atsumu blinks, then huffs out something between a scoff and a laugh. There’s an indulgent glow in his eyes even as he rolls them, “Yer a little shit, y’know that Tobio-kun?”

Tobio makes a face, a faint narrowing of his eyes, but he doesn’t rise to it. Doesn’t say anything. The silence stretches out again, but it’s not sharp. Not uncomfortable. Atsumu’s shoulder is still pressed to his, skin hot against him. The heat radiates slowly, oddly familiar now, even if it still fills him with a low, feverish sort of fuzziness. 

“I was kinda an asshole about it.” 

The way Atsumu says it is not sheepish, not embarrassed. Just honest. A raw bleed of verity. Crudely candid, in his strange, simultaneously blasé and brutal way. 

Tobio thinks about it, breathes in and out. Ambling, unbothered. He spies the way moonlight traces the hard lines of Atsumu’s jaw, delicate and stark all at once. But it’s his voice that gets him more: hushed, half-muffled into the arm that Atsumu has thrown over his face, unguarded in that way Tobio still hasn’t figured what to do with.

He turns his head slightly, letting his gaze linger.

“Yeah,” he says eventually. Even, like he’s stating the key points of a match, aware it would needle the older setter in the most pleasing of ways. “You were an asshole. You still are. But it was still hot.”

A snort escapes Atsumu, sounding mostly bewildered and a little bit embarrassed, and he drags his forearm off his face just enough to meet Tobio’s gaze, squinting at him from under his messy bangs. His mouth twitches like he’s trying to decide between being flattered or offended. 

“Yer so fuckin’ weird,” he says, but it comes out very obviously affectionate. Like the way he sounds when he sends Tobio voice notes about stray cats on the backstreets of Osaka, or when he mock-complains about something the team has done to piss him off. In fact, he almost sounds awed, full of disbelief. 

Tobio just pouts, unbothered. “Whatever, you’re the one who kissed me.” He pauses, furrows his brows. “And you're the one who decided to be friends.”

Atsumu lets out a loud, dramatic groan and yanks a pillow over his face like he’s shielding himself from a conversation he is the reason for. “Shut the fuck up and go to sleep,” he mutters into the fabric, voice muffled but unmistakably wobbly. A little raw. Like he’s flustered and pretending not to be.

Weird. 

Tobio looks away, blinks at the ceiling, then looks back, just enough to catch the edge of Atsumu’s pillow-fort. The pink of his ears. 

“You started it,” he says, low and calm.

There’s a pause. Then Atsumu kicks lightly at his shin under the covers. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to make a point.

“Didn’t mean for you to get weird about it,” Atsumu grumbles.

Tobio glowers at him, aware he can’t see the expression but still determined for him to feel it somehow, “I’m not weird. You’re weird. You keep calling me baby like it’s normal.”

It sounds petulant because it is, but he doesn’t care. Especially when Atsumu writhes and sits up, tossing the pillow aside like it has betrayed him, eyes wide with false offence as if Tobio has insulted his bloodline. 

“Yeah, well you begged me to!”

“I did not!”

“You whined, Tobio-kun.” Atsumu draws out the word with a cruel lilt, pointing a finger at him like he’s delivering damning evidence in court.

Tobio glares, “I did not whine.”

“Oh, ya so did,” Atsumu flops back down dramatically, rolling to face him with a smug, sleepy grin. “It was all, ‘oh please ‘Tsumu-san, please, call me baby, please,’ with those big pathetic wet eyes—”

“I didn’t say that.” Tobio feels himself blushing, but doesn’t stop glaring, entirely indignant. “You’re making things up.”

Atsumu’s laugh is muffled into the sheets, but he sounds far too pleased with himself. “You don’t have to say it, baby, your vibe says it.”

Tobio stares at him, incredulous. “That’s not a real thing.”

“Yeah well the way ya go all cute and flustered every time is real. Ya can’t argue against that.”

His blush deepens immediately, face betraying him. No one has called him something like that so brazenly to his face in a while, it is overwhelming and weird, but he refuses to give Atsumu the satisfaction of looking away. 

“I’m not cute,” he murmurs, aware that the tone he uses might be misconstrued as cute, but it most definitely is not. He’s a grown man. Not a child. 

“Right, right.” Atsumu nods solemnly, eyes half-lidded. “Yer terrifying. Stone cold. Total menace. But also adorable. Like a baby hawk. Or a kitten that thinks it’s a lion.”

Tobio lets out a noise that could generously be called a growl. “You’re deranged.”

“Maybe.” Atsumu shrugs, unbothered. “But ya haven’t kicked me outta yer bed yet so…”

“I could.”

“Sure, Tobio,” he lets out a long yawn, nuzzling himself further into the blanket. “You’d just miss me.”

Tobio exhales sharply through his nose, too tired to argue now. Admittedly, the worst part is that Atsumu is not entirely wrong. At least, about the part that Tobio hasn't kicked him out of the bed. That he won’t. Mostly because he does like it, the presence, the weight, the warmth. The way Atsumu fills the space with such ease, without any of the pressure Tobio thought he might feel from a situation like this. 

He waits a beat—for his pride—and then surrenders, relaxing against the mattress, letting himself sink into the warmth. There’s nothing about this that makes sense. Not the comfort. Not the rhythm they’ve fallen into without trying. Certainly not the strange ache of calm he feels when Atsumu’s knee brushes his under the blanket and stays there.

It should feel strange. Temporary. But it doesn’t.

But that doesn’t matter, he supposes. Not now. Not with Atsumu breathing soft and steady beside him. Not with the quiet hum of stillness, like the room itself has taken a breath and decided to let it go.

Not when his eyes are so heavy he cannot keep them open any longer.

Their feet stay tangled under the covers until morning, and it is probably the best night’s rest Tobio has gotten in a while.

Chapter Text

February, 2018

Training runs long, and the fluorescent lights feel harsher than usual by the time Tobio is peeling off his knee pads and compression sleeves, limbs heavy, joints sore in a way that should make him feel satisfied, accomplished, like he’s achieved something in today’s session. But the truth is, he just feels weary.

He barely registers the chatter in the locker rooms, takes longer in the shower, stands under the water like he is trying to cleanse himself of something he cannot see. Can only feel, writhing under his skin. When Romero checks on him before leaving, Tobio just plays off his aloofness as a lack of sleep; the older man buys it, but he hesitates before he goes. It should be reassuring, to be so cared for, but really, it feels like he’s being a burden even if he has kept his sets perfect. 

Outside, the sky has blanched, a dull slate, cinereal clouds swollen and low, rumbling against the pitch black of the night. The rain had started sometime between their second and third set in training. By the time Tobio heads out, it is a little lighter: soft mist, cool and cottony against his skin. It is the kind of rain that sticks rather than bounces, not hard and rough, but clingy and infiltrating. The kind that smells like memories.

It reminds him of Miyagi in early spring, of soil, not the wetness of summer but the damp promise of winter fading away. Wet stone and old moss and the scent of the earth waking up. Petrichor curls faintly in the air as he walks, soaked through before he’s even halfway to the station. 

He doesn’t have an umbrella on him, probably wouldn’t have bothered to use it even if he did, and he ends up on the train with his duffle bag slung around him and his white Adlers jacket on, rain-seeped sleeves and droplets in his dark hair, crystal-crush kisses, rivulets trailing down the curve of his neck. 

A little boy who is seated with an elderly man who keeps reminding him to sit still, stares at him the entire time he is on the train, but he doesn’t say anything, and Tobio just tiredly tries to ignore him, just like he tries to ignore the shuddering sounds of the train track, the muffled voice reading announcements, and the thought that something is wrong with him. A hollowed out feeling, wet roots ripped out of the earth without warning. 

His last match was a win against EJP Raijin. Two days ago. Solid, clean volleyball. He’d felt good, but that feeling has slowly bled out of him, whisked away with the thinning of the air, the gentle breeze and the gathering storms. 

A few months ago, when they played Raijin last, it was his birthday. Fans had clamoured in the stands with cheerful, hand-painted signs that said things like King Kageyama rules the court! and Happy Birthday Kageyama-senshu! with too many hearts. He hadn’t known where to look, overcome by the attention. Romero had laughed about it later in the post-match interview, saying they all had to play like their lives depended on it because it would’ve been criminal to ruin the birthday boy’s day.

Tobio had been flustered for hours. He still is, when he thinks about it.

It feels strange, however. He is twenty-one now. That should mean something, right?

He supposes he should feel more like an adult, put together and busy with too much on his plate to even think about anything else. Sort of like Miwa used to be at this age. 

In some ways, he is an adult. Is capable. He has a regular apartment now, a machine that makes his coffee on a timer, a calendar with matches and recovery days and grocery reminders. His passport is filled with stamps, places he never even thought of visiting, but then again he never thought of much growing up—just volleyball. He has teammates who look to him like he knows what he’s doing. On the court, at least, he does. There are hordes of young people, girls and boys, who admire him. Who celebrate him. Who come to his matches with neon coloured signs wishing him happy birthday and chant his name, their joy filling the stadium air like an extra layer of the atmosphere. 

It doesn’t match the way he still feels sometimes: raw-edged and unsure, all motion and reflex and silence. He doesn’t know what it means that people care about him like that, in bright markers and handmade signs. He’s never known what to do with being seen, even if he appreciates it, feels gratefulness swelling in his very bones. 

Even now, walking through the quiet rain from the station to his apartment building, shoes scuffing wet pavement, his jacket damp at the cuffs, he feels like a child again. Like the boy on the train with the old man, or the kids that come to his matches and beg to get their shirts signed, wide-eyed and full of wonder. 

He doesn’t know what to do with any of those thoughts. Doesn’t know how to connect them to the stormy thing under his skin. Blistering, tempestuous torrent of restlessness, violently raging in his blood. 

Once he is inside his apartment, Tobio drops his bag on the ground, stepping into his bedroom without turning the lights on. Outside, lightning flickers, the rain picking up speed again, the grey-bright spill of the storm through the window providing enough brightness for him to see. 

He peels his jacket and shirt off, tosses them in the wash with his tracksuit bottoms and finds a comfy pair of joggers and a worn out t-shift to put on instead, drying himself off with a fluffy towel. When he’s done, he stands still in the middle of the bathroom for a long moment, staring at himself in the mirror, lit up by the clinical lighting. Too bright and white. Pasty. Tendrils of still-damp hair clinging to the back of his neck, the hum of the city and the patter of the rain just audible through the thick glass of his window.

His reflection stares back at him in the mirror. A strange, weary man child. Boy-faced and sleepy. He thinks, tiredly, that he looks so very much like Miwa; not Miwa now, though they do still look very much alike, but the Miwa he saw when he was younger. The bleary image of her that yet remains in his mind: older, taller, pinned up hair, expressionless face and dull eyes. She always pinched his cheek when she said goodbye to him, and she was always saying goodbye.

He doesn’t know why he’s thinking of her so much today. Doesn’t know why any of it matters.

It is almost daze-like, the manner in which he walks back into his room. He thinks he should probably eat something, there’s some curry from yesterday in the fridge. He should heat it up.

Instead, he reaches for his phone. Picks it up without thinking. The squall within his chest is only getting worse. And it is not a conscious decision, what he does next, just a pull, a sudden quiet certainty, the way a setter knows where the ball needs to go before it even leaves the pass. He scrolls to Hinata’s name and presses call before he can talk himself out of it.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to say.

The phone rings once, then twice. 

“…Hello?” Hinata’s voice comes through, a little muffled, the connection crackling. 

“Hey,” Tobio says, pressing the phone to his ear and tuning his head to watch the rain slide in rivulets down the glass. His eyes are dry and they sting, each blink tacky with something deeper than sleep.

There’s a rustle on the other side of the connection, the clang of something metal hitting the ground. 

“Holy shit, am I actually speaking to Kageyama right now or are you a ghost or something?”

Tobio glares even though there’s no one here to see it, “Don’t be a dumbass.” The reply is flat, only to be met with a light-hearted snort; a familiar call and response.

“Just had to check,” Hinata teases, “haven’t heard from you in a while. You’ve been too busy winning leagues and cups back home.” 

He says it lightly, voice almost flippant. But Tobio knows him. He knows the way Hinata gets when he’s chasing something, how nothing else in the world matters until he’s caught up, until he’s burned bright enough to stand at the top too.

The words aren’t a jab. They’re a challenge. An acknowledgment. A promise with teeth behind it.

Tobio feels it land low in his chest.

He turns away from the window. The rain is louder now, the kind that settles into the bones, the kind that smells like the start of something heavy, something that clings to the air, thick and damp, even through the sealed glass. It makes him restless, lost. He needs something he can cling to, a reassurance.

“What are you doing?” He asks, throat tight, all of him off-balance. Like he’s been caught in a gust of wind. No warning, just a sudden, bone-deep lurch. Like the moment before thunder. Like the downpour before it crashes.

Hinata is quiet for a moment too long. It fills Tobio with an awful anxiety, cold-burn and numbness. 

“Training at the gym,” he says finally, a weight to his voice that strangely relieves Tobio. “Trying to get better. Like always.”

Tobio exhales, shifts his grip on the phone, presses it tighter to his ear. That old comfort tugs at something in his chest, the warm, time-worn memory of his grandfather’s voice, low and soft like a summer drizzle: if you get really good, I promise you, somebody who's even better will come along and find you.

“Good,” he says, voice steadier than he expects it to be. “Keep doing that.”

“I will. You too.”

Tobio nods, though he knows Hinata can’t see it. The rain outside has thickened, a steady rhythm against the glass, constant and soft. He lets the sound of it fill the silence between them. It doesn’t chase the weight away entirely, but it holds it—makes it bearable.

He closes his eyes. The line stays open. Neither of them fills the silence with anything else for a long moment, and then Hinata says he has to go, that Tobio should probably sleep.

Neither of them says goodbye. They never do.

Afterwards, Tobio drops his phone on the mattress and sits up, hunched forwards, elbows digging into his knees. A part of him still feels wrong, like his insides have been turned out, left damp and open, but he tries to bury it. Shallow-water grave. Leaves it all somewhere he won’t have to look at it, and drags himself to the kitchen to heat his dinner.

He eats out of the container, standing at the counter with his shoulders slouched and his body heavy. The apartment feels too quiet, so he flicks on the telly just to hear it murmur over the sound of rain. On instinct, he flips to the sports channel, just as they’re airing the highlights from the Red Falcons vs. Jackals match that took place in the morning.

Atsumu fills the screen in a flash of gold and motion. A white-burn, crackle of energy and light, practically buzzing its way out of the broadcast. Eyes sharp with focus, jaw clenched, hair damp at his temples, mouth curled into a smile like he’s having the time of his life, like he knows he belongs on the court and wants to remind everyone else of it.

He grins after a successful dump, spinning on the spot and shouting something to one of his teammates just out of frame. It’s so vivid that Tobio can almost hear it, can almost feel the electric charge of it, the magnetism Atsumu always carries when he’s in motion. A live wire or a lit match held too close, the rumble of thunder in the distance, the harsh slam of rain that comes unexpectedly. 

Tobio stares, a bite of reheated rice forgotten in his mouth. He chews slowly, mechanically. Swallows. His mind is not in this room with him; it is in that stadium, locked on Atsumu as he digs for a ball with impossible reflexes, scrambling across the floor like the court is a battlefield. Tobio watches the way he moves, like he’s chasing something no one else can see. Like nothing could stop him.

Tobio doesn’t know how to name it, just knows that it pulls at him, this magnetic hum beneath his skin. He knows Atsumu’s moods the way some people know weather fronts, by instinct, by shifts in the air pressure, by the way the light changes, by the ache somewhere deep in their joints.

And for a moment, Tobio feels that same ache somewhere in his wrists, in his chest too. He finishes eating without tasting the rest, and rinses the container, leaves it in the sink before flicking the TV off, just as Atsumu’s face returns onto the screen in a post-game interview. His hair is wet from sweat and his grin is crooked and smug.

Tobio doesn’t want to hear his voice through a screen. Not right now.

His next game is against the Jackals, four days from now. Atsumu is already convinced they’ll win, despite the fact that they lost in November, and that several sites are predicting an Adler’s victory. Plus, the Adlers sit at number one in the rankings where MBSY lies at three, which is not bad; yet the last time Tobio mentioned it, Atsumu hung up and didn’t talk to him for an hour.

(“You’re a child,” Tobio had said when the older setter called him back, exactly sixty minutes later on the dot. 

“And you’re rude, and didn’t grovel at all,” Atsumu had replied, voice high with mock offense. “S’like ya didn’t wanna talk to me at all.”

“You were the one who hung up?”

“That’s not the point, Tobio-kun.”)

Now, four days out, Atsumu’s confidence is dialled to eleven, and he sends texts like: ur libero’s slow, hope he’s been stretching, and hope u’ve figured out how to block me and can’t wait for my victory drinks <3. 

Tobio reads them, rolls his eyes, and only responds to about one in three. Not because he’s annoyed, but because he knows Atsumu thrives on the attention. Because it’s predictable. Because he can already hear the cadence of Atsumu’s voice behind the words, balmy and puffed up, the kind of drawl that drips with self-satisfaction and false innocence. Like he’s not baiting Tobio on purpose. Like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing. 

It is the same way he sounds when he tilts his chin away and holds Tobio down with a soft hand to his chest, denies him kisses until Tobio either caves in and says please, or takes matters into his own hands and roughly shoves him down. Either way, Atsumu always croons out in victory, smug and pleased with himself, like he’s somehow won something more than just the moment. Like Tobio’s reactions are a game he’s already mastered.

Tobio frowns, pads his way back into his room, stripping out of his shirt and settling under the sheets. He already knows how it will feel when they face off again. Anticipation like the electric press of air before rain. The calm before the court becomes a storm again. He wants it, needs it, but even that doesn’t quell his unease, the out of balance atmospheric pressure of his being.

The rain hasn't stopped and usually, the sound soothes him. Steady rhythm. White noise. But tonight, it gnaws at the edges of his nerves. It’s a low thrum in his chest, that unease, like the beat of something forgotten, just out of reach. He shifts, restless, gets up and crosses the room without thinking.

His phone lights up as he picks it up again. He opens his calendar.

And freezes.

The date stares back at him. Not today. Not the match. The day after tomorrow.

The anniversary.

Tobio blinks once, twice. He had thought…

Well, he hadn’t thought at all. He had known it was coming, vaguely. The way he might know winter is near because his hands start aching again when he practices in the mornings, red-raw fingertips after his run. But he hadn’t counted the days. He never does.

And now it’s right there, three days away. The memory of it hits all at once, not sharp, not a flash flood, just slow and heavy, like the rain seeping into his clothes earlier, unnoticed until it was everywhere.

The apartment suddenly feels too quiet. Too still.

He sets the phone down again, face down this time, as if that can make the date go away.

But the storm outside is still building, steady as breath. And Tobio, standing alone in the middle of it, feels it settle in his bones.

❧

Tobio doesn’t work up the courage to talk to his sister until after training the next day. It hadn’t been a long session, just weight circuits and review, but even with the extra time, he doesn’t message her right away.

He gets home, showers, and changes into dry clothes before opening Miwa’s contact. They speak once a week, like clockwork: short calls where she asks about his matches, and whether he’s stopped eating pre-packaged food for dinner. She forgets, every time, that he has a nutritionist now. That he’s not a sulky teenager fending for himself in an empty house anymore, but rather a professional athlete with a diet plan. Still, she asks. And a part of him likes that she does, feels a subtle warmth every time.

But this isn’t one of those calls, because he doesn’t dial. He takes the coward’s route: a text. Just typed out, plain and spare:

TOBIO:

Hey. Are you going to Miyagi this year?

He hits send before he can think better of it, then tosses his phone face down onto the sofa.

He puts away his shoes. Opens the windows a crack. The air outside smells like wet concrete, though the rain hasn’t started yet. The clouds are darkening slowly. He gets back to his living room after dumping his towel in the wash, and sits at the edge of his couch, staring at the screen expectantly.

No reply. Just that waiting static in his chest. He types another message, unable to stop the clawing, keening, restless beast within him. The ungovernable scud of thoughts in his mind. He deletes. Types again.

TOBIO:

If I go, will you come with me?

The silence stretches for so long it starts to feel like an answer. But then his phone buzzes. Not a text; a call. Miwa’s name lights the screen. Tobio answers.

Predictably, she doesn’t mention the message. Not right away.

Instead, there’s the faint rustle of kitchen noise on her end. A pan being set down, something sizzling in oil. The kind of domestic sounds that don’t feel like they belong to either of them.

“You home early?” she asks.

“Light day.”

“You eat?”

“Yeah.”

A small pause. “Not just protein bars and vending machine shakes, right?”

He huffs. “I’m not fifteen.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she mutters, but it’s not unkind. Just routine. Customary chat.

Tobio stares out the window, watching clouds bunch low over the city. The first drops of rain hit the glass, quiet, scattered. Like the start of something. He doesn’t say anything, listens to the scrape of utensils, the dry knock of a knife hitting a chopping board, Miwa sighing softly. 

For some reason, he cannot visualise any of it. He knows where she lives, a narrow apartment in Osaka, with a small kitchen and a window that overlooks another wall. He’s been there. She told him once that the sink clogs every few weeks, and she’s given up trying to get the landlord to fix it properly. But even now, with the sounds so close and so ordinary, he can’t picture her there. Can’t see her hand resting on the counter, or the slope of her shoulders as she leans forward to stir something lazily.

In his mind, all he sees is his sister on the day of their grandfather’s funeral. Twenty-one, blank faced, no tears. She’d worn a long skirt that day, one their mother had laid out for her, muttering something about looking presentable. Tobio can still see the resentment that burned in Miwa’s eyes when she’d seen it on her bed, picked out for her like she didn’t know what was proper or appropriate.

He hadn’t understood it then, had just seen his sister glaring at the bed like she wanted it to burst into flames. 

Later, at the funeral, she had been the one to hold his hand. No one else. And the two of them had stood there, unmoored from everyone . Miwa, tall and detached; Tobio, thirteen, in his too-big suit, shell-shocked and shutting down, staring down at his shoes, his hands too cold even with Miwa holding onto him. 

He’s the same age now that she was then. 

That thought sticks. It’s strange; not in the way of realising he’s grown up, but in the quiet, unsettled understanding that he’s now standing in the very place she once was, and he still feels like he doesn’t know anything at all. It occurs to him, suddenly, that maybe Miwa never knew either. 

“You sent me a weird text earlier,” Miwa says, finally approaching the elephant in the room. 

Tobio doesn’t answer straight away. It seemed pretty straight forward to him, but Miwa, for all her bluntness and self-assurance, hates it when he’s direct about anything she doesn’t want to talk about. Turns into the distant older sister who assures him she knows best and she’s too busy; he can practically feel the dull ache of her fingers against his cheek. The soft whisper of her voice: I’ve got to go, little crow. 

He knows Miwa, knows that any mention of home or Miyagi or them makes her shut down, or worse, slip into that icy, evasive tone she thinks is gentle. It’s not. It’s like having a door slowly, deliberately closed in his face.

“It’s not weird,” he says eventually, his voice flat. “People visit graves on death anniversaries.”

A pause. The silence between them is thick, unbearable. He can hear her exhale through her nose, faint but audible, like she’s trying not to let it sound like a sigh. Like she’s trying to keep it casual.

“I know that,” she says.

“Then?”

Miwa’s quiet for a beat too long. Then, carefully, “You know I don’t like going back there.”

“I didn’t ask you to go see them,” he says, and now the edge in his voice is unmistakable. “It’s not about them.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“No, but that’s why you won’t go.” He doesn’t mean to sound accusatory. Or maybe he does. It’s hard to tell with her. Miwa, with her impeccable timing, her detachment dressed as poise, the way she can make absence feel like a deliberate virtue. She has a way of turning guilt into distance, and distance into silence. And maybe Tobio is sick of it. 

He isn’t a child anymore; he won’t sit by the phone, waiting for Miwa to call like he used to. Won’t stare at the screen hoping her name lights up, hoping today she’ll talk a little longer, sound a little less tired, a little more like his sister and less like someone already halfway gone. He won’t sit by their grandfather’s bed listening to her clipped answers and early hang-ups, no time to talk to Tobio, not really, not back then. He remembers those calls like tides: brief, predictable, always pulling away before he was ready.

He isn’t thirteen anymore, and Miwa isn’t twenty-one. He isn’t a boy lost and unsure of himself, a ship cut loose with no current to carry it, and she isn’t a girl trying to carve her way to self-understanding. He knows who he is, and she says she does too. And maybe that’s why it hurts differently, sharper, when she still keeps him at arm’s length, even after all the effort they’ve made to knit their old wounds together. 

The rain has gotten faster, a deluge without breaks. Tobio listens to it and tries to breathe, to centre himself. When he closes his eyes, he sees home, sees his grandfather cheering him and Miwa on as they practise alongside the women’s team he coached. 

“You could come for a day,” he says, quieter now. “Just to the cemetery. That’s not the house.”

“Tobio.”

The way she says it is agitated. She sounds like their father did when Miwa came home with particularly bad grades, how their mother did when she didn’t like Miwa’s choice of friends, girls with dyed hair and piercings, who wore boyish ripped jeans or short-shorts. Tobio knows that if he told her that, she would hang up. The urge to do so is still strong, but in the end, he cannot bring himself to fight. 

“Forget it.”

“Don’t do that,” Miwa snaps. “Don’t shut down on me.”

“I’m not. I just…” he trails off, fiddles with the hem of his shirt and wishes he had a volleyball in his hands right about now. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Say you get it.”

And oh, she sounds so unlike herself. Alien. A pleading thing. His sister has been many things: aloof, overwhelming, mean, distant, fiercely supportive when it mattered most. But never this. Never weak. Never vulnerable. Never scared. Not in front of him.

Not until now, with her voice wobbling, just barely. A sharp breath caught in her throat. That desperate edge creeping in at the corners, thin and raw. It unsettles him. Because if Miwa is unraveling, then maybe the scaffolding of everything they’ve endured, all the silence, all the held-together pieces, is beginning to loosen, too. 

Maybe it's up to him to hold it together, when she can’t.

“I get it,” he says. “Neesan, I do get it.”

And that’s the problem. Because he understands why she won’t go, and he hates that he understands. He hates that it makes sense, and that it still feels like she’s leaving him to carry it alone. He hates that she always gets to choose distance, and he’s the one who ends up sitting on the train, with the incense sticks and the half-broken lighter in his pocket.

When the silence stretches too long, Miwa exhales hard. “You’re mad at me, are you?”

Tobio chews on his lip, shakes his head, denies it. “No, neesan, I’m not mad.”

“You sound like you’re mad.”

“I’m not.” 

“You’re lying, little crow.” Her voice softens just slightly, familiar and cutting all at once. “And you still suck at it.”

“And you’re still not answering my question.”

Another silence. Longer this time. He thinks he hears the clink of a glass being set down, the faint hum of traffic through her kitchen window.

Tobio can feel a tightness in his temple. He takes a deep breath, exhales slowly, “You haven’t visited since his funeral, neesan.” 

“Exactly!” There’s a clatter on Miwa’s side of the connection, “You always go alone. Why is this time different?”

Tobio hesitates. “Because… it matters. More than usual. It’s been nine years.”

“I know…” Miwa’s voice falters, turns quiet. “Tobio, you know I miss him too, right?”

She sounds defeated and that’s new. His sister, the one who held his hand like a steel tether at the funeral, who walked ahead of him for most of his life like she knew exactly where they were going, never lost to anything. Not the world. Not their parents. Not grief.

He isn’t about to let it start now.

“So come with me,” he says, knuckles white around the edge of the coffee table. “I need my sister. Just this once.” He doesn’t want to stand in front of their grandfather’s grave without someone’s hand to hold. 

There’s a long silence. No movement on the line. No clatter of dishes or glass. No sigh.

Then Miwa says, quietly and matter-of-fact: “…Okay. I’ll come with you.”

Tobio blinks. It’s not what he expected. Not after everything. Not after years of her avoiding it, avoiding their parents, avoiding the place they both came from. 

“You will?”

“Yeah.” Her voice is tired, but not cold. “If you’re going… I’ll go.”

He waits, half-expecting her to pull it back, to lace it with sarcasm or an escape route. But she doesn’t.

“But we’re not staying overnight. You make the reservation, I’ll meet you at the station.”

“Okay.” He can’t stay anyway, with the match and all.

“And I’m not wearing a skirt just because Mom would’ve wanted it to be ‘proper.’ I’ll wear jeans.”

Tobio pulls a face, deadpan, “I don’t care.”

It makes Miwa laugh, not bright and loud. Cotton-soft, refreshing like early morning dew. The line goes quiet again, and outside his window, the rain is still going. A free fall, steadily washing against the glass. The sky, leaden grey, low and swollen. Tobio presses his fingers against the windowpane, watches the way they blanch with the pressure.

“You know,” Miwa says after a moment, her voice softer now, almost wry, “you’ve not asked me fort anything like that in a very long time.”

“Like what?”

“Like it matters whether I’m there or not.”

Tobio stiffens, unsure how to answer that. He wants to argue with her. To say, of course you matter. You always have. But the truth is murkier than that. They’ve spent so long circling each other’s pain, building silences in place of bridges. Miwa has been the one creating distance all their lives, sometimes she acts like it's not true, but he supposes, he shut down too after he got older, started ignoring it all. But only because she did. He never wanted the distance, and he knows she knows that too, he just doesn’t know how to say any of it without it coming out wrong.

“You’ve always mattered,” he says. “I just…didn’t know how to stop you for long enough to ask.”

A pause.

“Alright, little crow,” Miwa says, quiet and quick, almost like she regrets opening that door. “Send me the train time.”

The call ends with the click, but the quiet lingers.

Outside, the rain intensifies. It drums against the glass, not violently, but insistently. The kind of rain that smells like soil and concrete and ghosts. The kind that reminds Tobio of the walk home from middle school, of forgotten umbrellas and heavy shoes. 

Tobio thinks that he will never ask her to go again. If she says no next year, he won’t press. He’ll remember this one as a win, even if it feels too temporary. Even if the weight is still uneven.

Because Miwa remembers differently. She carries it in avoidance; he carries it in silence. But both of them are still carrying it.

And maybe, that’s something.

❧

Miwa arrives in Tokyo the next day on the first train from Osaka. There’s a deep, earthy scent rising from the tracks, stirred up by an early rain that hasn’t fully stopped. The station glistens under low clouds, everything slick and quiet, like the city hasn’t quite woken up yet.

Tobio waits at the platform with coffee in one hand, and the scarf she forgot last time she was here in the other. It’s still a little damp from where it brushed against his coat. He doesn’t wave, and she doesn’t smile. They just stand there, the hum of the train fading behind her, letting the moment catch up.

Miwa takes the coffee without a word. He offers the scarf. She drapes it loosely around her neck, and then walks toward the vending machines with the dragging pace of someone who hasn't fully left the train. She buys snacks and stuffs them in her bag, tosses Tobio a yoghurt drink and a protein bar without asking. When Tobio makes a face at her, she just rolls her eyes.

“It’s eight thirty five on a recovery day, which means you didn't go on your morning run so you didn’t get up until half an hour ago, and came straight here. Eat.”

He doesn’t argue. She’s right, as usual. The bar crinkles in his hand, the only sharp sound in the thick, gray air.

The sky is the color of ash, adorn with low-hanging clouds that seem to press down on the station. A damp chill clings to everything, benches slick with moisture, puddles collecting between cracked tiles. 

Their train home isn’t for another thirty minutes. They don’t talk. They just lean against a wall, watching the mist swell and shift around the platform. Somewhere beyond the tracks, a train shrieks into motion, brief, sudden, too loud for the quiet morning. The sound cuts through the fog like a banshee, sharp and jarring, but it's over in a breath. Everything returns to stillness.

Rain patters, softer now. The smell of earth and steel lingers. Tobio glances over. Miwa has her eyes closed. Maybe resting. Maybe somewhere else.

He doesn’t ask. Just eats his breakfast and then whispers softly under his breath, “Thank you for coming.”

Miwa doesn’t open her eyes, doesn’t say anything. She just hums, one side of her mouth pulling up into something resembling a smile.

❧

They arrive at around twelve in the afternoon after a train swap in Sendai. 

They don’t go to the house, like Tobio promised. Just straight to the cemetery which is only a short walk from the station, but the air changes by the time they get there. Quieter. Heavier. Thinner, somehow.

There’s no one else there. Just crows overhead and the sharp, wintry smell of pine and the looming mountains that have watched them grow up. Silent, distant. Miwa used to tell him the mountains were monsters. Tobio had believed her for longer than he’d care to admit.

“More involved than our parents,” she mutters now, under her breath. He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t need to. She’s said it millions of times before.

At the graveyard, the wind picks up a little, and Tobio walks ahead, bucket in hand, heavy with water from the shrine down the road. A scrub brush sits wedged between his fingers. Miwa doesn’t offer to carry anything; he doesn’t expect her to.

They find the headstone easily. It is a little shiny from the name, the kanji of his name slightly faded in one corner, but it’s unmistakable.

Kageyama Kazuyo.

Their grandfather.

Tobio kneels without speaking. Begins scrubbing at the base of the grave first, then up the side where moss has gathered like clotted dust. The cold seeps through the fabric of his gloves. His knuckles sting as he rips out a few odd weeds.

He tries not to think too hard, but his mind spirals anyway. Drifts to the shape of his grandfather’s hands, the weight of them on his shoulders. The old VHS tapes. The way he used to tell them that no one understands what is and is not important to them better than they do.

Miwa doesn’t crouch. She stands there quietly, incense already in her hand, three sticks nestled between her fingers. She lights them one by one with an old matchbook she pulls from her coat pocket. Her fingers tremble, not violently, but enough that Tobio notices. It might be the cold. It might not be.

When she places the incense down, the smell curls around them, sharp and familiar. Like every memorial and winter funeral they’ve ever been to. The kind of scent that hangs in your throat long after it’s gone.

Tobio sets the bucket aside, and Miwa finally kneels beside him. Her jeans touch the frozen earth. She doesn’t flinch. They press their hands together. Bow once. They don’t say anything. Not for a long time.

The smoke rises, pale and wavering, like something unfinished.

Miwa places a pack of cigarettes on the grave without ceremony, setting it neatly beside the incense, as though it belongs there. The cellophane catches the light, glossy against the stone.

Tobio pulls a face, his brow furrowing. “Oji-san didn’t smoke.”

Miwa smirks faintly, her breath misting in the cold air, “Somethings even you didn’t know about him.”

He stares at the offering, incredulous. “When?”

“When okaasan wasn’t around to catch him.” Her voice carries that dry, knowing lilt she reserves for family secrets; maybe even a little irony, considering their mother wasn’t at home most of the time anyway. “He’d sit in the shed out back after dinner and smoke exactly half a cigarette. Said a full one was a waste.”

“That’s stupid.”

“It’s nostalgia.” She shrugs. “Or stubbornness. Same thing.”

Tobio snorts, but it’s soft, more breath than sound. He looks down at the pack. A strange weight settles in his chest, familiar, oddly comforting. It is stupid, maybe, this half-secret smoking habit, but it roots something deeper in him. A quiet gladness, almost childlike. Relief that there’s still more to know. That their grandfather wasn’t entirely finished, or fossilised, or sealed away in memory.

More than anything, he’s glad that Miwa remembers things he doesn’t. That she carries fragments he never saw. A treasure trove of memories he has yet to know. It keeps their grandfather real. Not a perfect shadow, not a stone name in a row of others, but someone who once sat in a shed under a flickering light and smoked half a cigarette like it meant something.

It makes him feel like their grandfather is still here, not just in the grave beneath their feet, but in their hands, in their stories. In the way Miwa doesn’t meet his eyes when she stands back up, brushing ash from her fingers like dust.

“I thought he told me everything” Tobio says.

Miwa’s voice is quiet when she replies, not unkind. “You were a kid. You knew what he wanted you to know.” Her eyes meet his, dark pools of warmth, “The important shit.”

The incense crackles faintly beside them. Smoke curling in slow spirals toward the pale winter sky.

❧

Afterwards, on the way back to the station, they stop by a convenience store. Miwa gets herself another hot coffee, presses it to her palms like she is trying to heat up something deeper than just her fingers. Outside, she takes a minute to smoke under the narrow awning where the rain can’t touch her. Half a cigarette. Her face unreadable, sharp in profile, staring off into the distance.

Tobio gets nothing. He doesn’t feel like eating, doesn’t want the feel of food in his mouth, or the weight of it in his stomach. 

At the station, they sit on a bench, steam rising from the vents behind them.

Miwa taps her fingers against her paper cup. A soundless fidgeting she tries to pass off as impatience for the train’s arrival.

“Are you still annoyed I didn’t come back for so many years?” She asks, not looking at him.

“No.”

“You sure?”

“I said no, didn’t I?” Tobio looks down at his hands. They’re still raw from years of winter practice. Still calloused in the same old places. Skin cracked where sweat and cold have battled too long. He thinks, absently, that he needs to file his nails tonight.

“You’re allowed to be angry,” Miwa says, her voice low and nonchalant like it doesn’t matter, even though it feels like it does. To her. To him.

He stares at his shoes, “So are you.”

“I don’t want to be.”

“Me neither.”

Silence stretches between them, not uncomfortable, but uncertain. The kind that hangs in the air when something heavy has finally landed.

Miwa leans back, tilts her head toward the thick cloud cover, says the impossible. “Let’s try again next year.”

Tobio glances at her, surprised, “You mean it?”

Miwa doesn’t answer, just nods. Slow and sure.

❧

On the train ride back, Miwa dozes against the window, her head tilted slightly toward the glass. The gray light filters in, catching on the edges of her hair, as Tobio sits beside her, watching the landscape blur past: pale winter fields, quiet farmhouses, power lines slicing through the rain-smeared horizon.

He watches the curve of her shoulders, the way her coat is slightly bunched beneath her seatbelt, the slow rise and fall of her breath. He remembers when they used to sit in the back of their father’s car as kids: Miwa with her headphones on, lost in music, and Tobio trying not to fall asleep in case he missed something important. Back then, silence had meant she didn’t want to talk. Now, it feels almost like an offering. Like a hand outstretched between them.

He thinks about how silence doesn’t always mean distance. How love can show up in jeans and sarcasm, in half a cigarette in the rain, on a bench with canned coffee. How maybe next year, she’ll keep her promise, come without him having to ask.

He doesn’t know if he should trust it. But he’s less annoyed now. Still tired. Still hollow in places.

But less alone.

And when Tokyo starts to rise in the distance, a restlessness blooms in Tobio. Entirely alien. Miwa watches him warily from her seat, mouth pinched into a frown.

“You have a few more days off, right?” He asks, still staring out the window. Not looking at her.

Miwa’s voice is low, just-awake, “Yeah, I took time off ‘til Monday.”

“You should stay,” he suggests. “Watch my next match.”

There’s a pause. A brief, skeptical breath. “I didn’t book a hotel.”

“Stay at mine,” Tobio says, careful to keep his voice even. “There’s a sofa bed.”

She turns to him fully now, eyes narrowing just slightly, like she’s testing the shape of the moment. “You sure?”

He shrugs. “Yeah.”

And that’s it. She doesn’t tease. Doesn’t ask why. Just says, “Okay.”

It’s not some big reconciliation. They aren’t hugging or crying or pulling out photo albums. But it feels like it. A paroxysm hidden in something mundane.

Miwa leans back into her seat, folding her arms across her chest. “You’re different,” she mutters.

“So are you,” Tobio says, and glances sidelong at her. “You didn’t even threaten to rearrange my furniture.”

She snorts, but there’s no bite to it. “Guess we’ll see how long that lasts when we get to your place.”

❧

That night, they order takeout and watch the DESEO Hornets play the Green Rockets. Miwa rolls her eyes when he flips the match on, but it’s half-hearted and fond, because despite herself, she still watches, still settles beside him with her katsudon, and her legs tucked under her. Drawn in by the rhythm, by his quiet commentary, by the familiar cadence of a life she left behind.

Eventually, the day catches up with her, a weariness sinking her red eyes, strands of her short hair, frazzled. She leans over, presses a kiss to the crown of Tobio’s head and murmurs good night. He had insisted she take the bed, even pulled out an old shirt for her to sleep in, soft with age and bearing the faded logo of Karasuno. She didn’t argue.

He takes a blanket to the couch. Watches the match to the end, though his mind flickers in and out. When the screen finally goes dark, he doesn’t move. He lies there in the hush that follows, a silence punctuated only by the soft patter of rain on the windows.

The air is still heavy, scented like the cemetery this morning. Familiar and oddly intrusive.

He thinks of their grandfather. Of the grave they stood over, the too-bright chrysanthemums he'd brought, the way Miwa’s voice caught mid-sentence before she swallowed it back. And he thinks of the ache, this strange, hollow weight that has been following him for days. Not sharp, not weeping, but something deeper, quieter. Like pressure just beneath the ribs. 

It hasn't gone away. Not even now.

It comes in waves. Paroxysms of memory, of things unsaid and too long ago. Of the smell of rain on the gravel path beside the grave. Of his grandfather’s calloused hands, the rasp of his voice, the way he always paused before speaking, as though measuring the air. That silence lingers more than any words ever could. 

The text comes at 10:42 PM.

His phone, face-up on the floor beside the couch, buzzes once. Sharp, insect-like. A cicada creaking. The screen lights up, casting a faint, bluish glow onto the ceiling above him. It flickers there like distant lightning. For a moment, he doesn’t move. Just watches the pale rectangle of light shift with the rhythm of the rain, his heartbeat thudding in the quiet.

He reaches for it eventually, thumb dragging across the glass. It’s Atsumu, the new text following up a few unanswered ones, casual comments about the Raijin match from a few days ago, then a question about that place they had dinner the last couple of times Atsumu came to Tokyo. 

ATSUMU:

[2 days ago] u played that game like the ball pissed u off

ATSUMU:

[8:46 AM] that place near the station with the stupid good oyakodon still open?

[8:47 AM] wanna go after the match?

[8:48 AM] yk after i kick your ass on court

ATSUMU:

[10:42 PM] is ur moody ass ghosting me or r u dead

Tobio stares at the screen, blank-faced. A muscle jumps in his jaw, not quite a laugh, but something close to the memory of one. His phone buzzes again. 

ATSUMU:

oh so he remembers he has a phone

ATSUMU:

srsly tobio-kun…you still breathing? 

He blinks a few times; his fingers hover, but he doesn’t reply. He doesn’t want to lie and say he’s fine. He doesn’t want to tell the truth, either. And yet, he wants to speak to Atsumu. Wants the familiar croon of his voice in his ear, sharp-edged and grounding, the way it drops low when he’s serious, when he isn’t just making noise for the sake of it. 

He remembers it suddenly, vividly: that rare quiet in Atsumu’s tone the last time they spoke face-to-face, after their match in November, when they’d sat on the curb outside a small convenience store near Atsumu’s apartment, soaking in the twilight haze after sloppily making out in a locker room once their teams had left, sweat cooling on their skin, neither of them saying much.

He remembers the way Atsumu’s knee had bumped into his, deliberate but not demanding. The way he’d torn open a sports drink with his teeth and handed it over without looking, eyes fixed on the fading light bleeding across the asphalt. Their shoulders were touching, barely, but the contact buzzed under Tobio’s skin.

Neither of them had spoken about what happened in the locker room. The rush of it. The heat. The way Tobio had grabbed Atsumu by the collar like he couldn’t think of anything else to do, and Atsumu had just laughed into his mouth. Quiet, breathless, like he’d been waiting.

At the time, they hadn’t seen each other since the annual start-of-season event, right at the end of September, some hotel ballroom packed with sponsors and media and too many smiles. Atsumu had looked good. Relaxed in a stylish black suit, nursing champagne. Like none of it touched him. He’d greeted Tobio with a half-grin and a shoulder bump, easy and forgettable.

Tobio had just nodded and drifted off, drink in hand, into the blur of the crowd. Of course, that was only until the night got long and more and more of their colleagues were drunk enough not to notice when Atsumu grabbed his wrist and pulled him down a side hallway, laughing too loudly, the kind of reckless grin that meant trouble.

The bathroom had been way too polished for what followed. Atsumu locking them in a stall like it was nothing, like it was just another joke between them. But the way his hands had found Tobio’s waist hadn’t felt like a joke. Neither had the way he kissed him, slow and messy and impatient. Familiar. Nor the way he got on his knees and made Tobio’s night. 

They hadn’t talked about that either, there on the street. Only briefly mentioned how they seemed to see each other after months during the on-season. How even with the gruelling schedule of the JNT, they at least had more of an excuse to be near one another. It had almost sounded like longing, and then Atsumu had said something stupid, just to cut through the weight of it, some throwaway line about how they were seasonal, like strawberries. Tobio hadn’t laughed, but he hadn’t walked away either. He’d stood there, watching Atsumu’s breath fog in the cooling air.

“Oh come on Tobio-kun,” Atsumu needled, bumping his forehead against Tobio’s shoulder. “That was funny. Laugh.”

“Ha, ha.”

Dry. Flat. But not dismissive.

There, on the street curb, Atsumu had huffed, dramatic as ever, and leaned back, hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat. “Brutal. I give ya my best material and you give me deadpan dismissal.”

Tobio remembers looking over at him, only half-exasperated. Atsumu’s hair was a mess, collar crooked, lips still a little chapped. And for a second, just a second, Tobio had wanted to reach out and fix it. His hair, his collar, all of it. Smooth the moment.

But he didn’t, because Atsumu had gotten up, holding out one hand for Tobio to take, grinning, wide and unbothered. Haloed by the streetlight.

“C’mon,” he’d said, fingers wiggling a little. “Come up to mine, let’s get outta here ‘fore someone sees us loiterin’ like sad teens.”

Tobio thinks he hesitated. He remembers the air was cold against his neck, sharp and damp with the threat of rain. Remembers the he had looked at Atsumu’s hand, not quite steady, not quite joking, and took it. Atsumu helped him onto his feet, and they held hands all the way up the stairs, Tobio’s palm hot and clammy for reasons he could not quite explain. Atsumu murmured filth all the while, walking like it was nothing, their fingers laced loosely, casually. 

Now, alone in his living room, Tobio’s palm feels terribly cold.

The sliver of empty space on the sofa next to him feels sharper than it should. Like something’s missing, like something was there and got up without saying goodbye. His fingers curl against the fabric, slow and useless.

He breathes in. Lets it out. Tries again.

Still cold.

Still quiet.

The ache has settled behind his ribs now. Not sharp, not even urgent. Just there, a dull and familiar companion. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back against the couch.

Atsumu’s last text is still waiting. Tobio decides to put them both out of their misery. It's not like he’s falling asleep anyway. 

TOBIO:

Barely.

It is unsurprising when Atsumu calls right away. 

No warning, as usual.

Tobio sighs through his nose and picks up.

“Barely?” Atsumu says straight away, sharp with concern under the sarcasm. “That ain’t exactly the kinda answer that makes a guy feel reassured.”

Tobio doesn’t respond immediately. Just shifts the phone to his other ear and rubs his palm against the couch cushion like he’s trying to wipe away something sticky. He doesn’t know how to explain that he truly cannot breathe right, some odd weight on his chest lingering even now. Ribs packed with wet sand.

“It’s raining,” he says instead. 

“Yeah? Thought ya liked that weather.”

He doesn’t remember when he told Atsumu that, but something in the back of his mind volleys back that Atsumu likes thunderstorms. Likes counting lightning strikes. Random information he’d absorbed without paying attention.

“I do.”

“So what’s the barely for, then?”

A pause. Tobio presses the heel of his hand into his eye socket. It doesn’t help. The headache doesn’t come from outside. 

He wants to tell Atsumu the truth. That it’s the anniversary. That he can’t sleep. That he’s been thinking about incense and overgrown headstones and his sister’s grim look when they stood in front of their grandfather’s name carved into cold stone. That the ache in his chest has a shape tonight, and it’s been clawing at him for days.

But the words lodge in his throat. It’s not shame. Not exactly. Just the quiet certainty that if he says it, he will follow it up with everything. Won’t stop until his voice goes hoarse and his face is wet with tears.

Because he isn’t a crier, but he could be, tonight.

And that terrifies him.

So instead he says nothing. Just breathes down the line, the rain crackling faintly in the background. There’s a rustling sound, blankets maybe, or the creak of his bed; Atsumu settling, probably lying back now, one arm behind his head, the other holding the phone up to his ear. He always paces or fidgets when he’s on a call. Never still, even now.

“Still there, Tobio-kun?” he says gently, the teasing tone softer now, misty rain in the Tokyo night.

Tobio nods before remembering that Atsumu can’t see him. “Yeah.”

A pause.

“You okay?” Atsumu asks, voice low but clear.

“I’m fine.”

“Baby,” he says, with that slow, drawling warmth that he uses when he’s trying not to push too hard. “Be serious. You sound weird.” Atsumu’s voice isn’t bright anymore, but it isn’t stiff. Concern disguised under casualness. “And don’t say you don’t. I already know you do.”

There’s a lapse in conversation when Tobio’s mouth hangs open and no words come out. Not the kind that demands anything. Just one that holds space. And then Atsumu’s voice again, lower now, rough with understanding he hasn’t earned but offers anyway. 

“What’s wrong, Tobio-kun?”

And maybe it’s the softness of Atsumu’s voice that rubs Tobio the wrong way. For a moment he wants to argue, wants to cut the call, wants to push and say something crappy so Atsumu reverts to cutting, flippant, and impatient in the way only someone who knows you well can be. 

But he can’t seem to bring it out of himself. The words won’t come. They sit there, brittle and half-formed, stuck behind his teeth, along with the truth.

“It’s none of your business,” he mumbles instead. No bite to it, just a sleepy sort of defeat.

There’s a pause. Tobio half expects Atsumu to hang up.

But he just sighs. Not sharp, not irritated. Just a release of breath.

“All right,” he says. “Then tell me somethin’ that is my business instead, yeah?”

Tobio blinks at the ceiling. The rain has slowed to a misty tapping now, soft against the windows. He can hear Miwa turning over in the bedroom. The ache in his chest tightens, shifts.

He frowns faintly, presses the edge of his thumb into the corner of his phone, mind going blank. “…Like what?”

“I dunno,” Atsumu says, voice loose now, deliberately casual. “Tell me somethin’ boring. What socks you’re wearin’. What’s on your ceiling. Whether you’re lyin’ down or just bein’ dramatic on the floor.”

Tobio exhales slowly. Looks up.

“Ceiling’s white.”

“No shit.”

“Nike socks. Also white.”

“Oh, look at us, matchin’. Soulmates or somethin’.”

Tobio ignores the teasing tone threaded into that last sentence, “And I’m on the couch.”

“Mm. Dramatic and lazy.”

Tobio lets the corner of his mouth twitch. Doesn’t give Atsumu the satisfaction of a real laugh, but something loosens in his chest anyway.

A pause. Softer this time. The line is quiet except for the faint hum of Atsumu’s apartment in the background, maybe a fridge, maybe traffic. There’s a distant rumble of thunder.

“You alone?” Tobio asks, before he can stop himself.

Atsumu seems to pause, voice low, “Yeah.”

Tobio nods, more to himself than anything. Shifts onto his side, blanket pulled up higher over his shoulder. The phone is warm in his hand now. 

He misses the weight of Atsumu against him. Not even in the obvious ways. Just the presence; the familiar shape of another body in the room, the uneven rhythm of his breathing, the restless shifting of limbs as he complains about the sheets or kicks them off entirely. The way he talks right up until he’s asleep, like silence is something he’s afraid of.

The way Tobio is not.

And yet, here he is, phone pressed to his ear like a lifeline. Tobio is quiet a beat longer. Then, a breath. “I don’t feel great.”

“You sick?”

“No, I just… I don’t—” He falters. “I don’t know how to explain it.”

Another beat of silence. Then Atsumu says, “It’s okay, y’know. Whatever it is. Ya don’t have to tell me. I just— I don’t like not knowin’ how to help.”

It fills Tobio with something awful. Burning and warm. Sticky, like treacle in his throat and chest and eyelids. Too heavy. Too much. Because Atsumu, for all his noise and swagger and bravado, means it. Tobio knows that.

“You are helping,” he says, and his voice cracks just slightly at the end.

He hates the sound of it. Hates how thin it makes him feel. Like if he says one more thing, everything else will crumble. That ache behind his ribs, the pressure behind his eyes, the ache of memory and time and distance. All of it, spilling.

Tobio covers his eyes with his palm, breathes in like it hurts. But Atsumu doesn’t say anything to the crack in his voice. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t draw attention to it. 

Then, casually: “Want me to tell you about how Samu nearly set his eyebrows on fire tryin’ to toast nori in our Ma’s kitchen?”

Tobio doesn’t answer, but the silence is different now. Waiting, not resisting.

Atsumu takes it as permission and keeps going. “We were, like, twelve? He’d read somewhere that toasted seaweed tasted better, so he got this brilliant idea to do it himself with a lighter he stole off our auntie. No supervision, obviously. Said he was gonna be a ‘food innovator.’”

Tobio shifts slightly, the couch creaking under him. Osamu was sort of right in the end.

“So there he is, hoverin’ over the sink, holding a sheet of nori like it’s a science experiment, and the edge catches. Just goes up. Whoosh. I swear his life flashed before my eyes. Twin sense or some bullshit. He drops the whole thing in the sink and starts slapping at his face like a man possessed.”

Tobio exhales. A little sound, like the ghost of a laugh. It sounds like Atsumu is grinning into the receiver; Tobio can envision it all too well.

“Eyebrows survived. Barely. And the kitchen didn’t even smell like fire for that long. But Ma grounded him anyway, grounded me with him. Said it was my job to stop ‘Samu being stupid, not facilitate it. One-way rule, of course.”

Tobio presses his knuckles to the corner of his mouth. The apartment feels better now, like Atsumu’s voice carved out a small safety in the air. He doesn’t speak, but neither does Atsumu.

“Will you tell me something else?” he says eventually. His voice is almost a whisper. “Anything.”

“Anything, huh?” Atsumu says. “Alright, lemme think.” He sounds like he’s shifting around, maybe lying back, maybe letting his mind wander in the same gentle way Tobio’s has begun to loosen from its knot. “Do you know why I wanted to become a setter?”

Tobio blinks at the ceiling. His brow furrows faintly. “No.”

Atsumu launches into a story about an elementary school workshop, and the first time he realised the importance of a setter. How they could take even the scrappiest of spikers and give them a good toss, let them score, not just help. 

“Didn’t matter how bad the kid was,” Atsumu says. “With the right toss, they could fly. And that’s the point of the setter, ain’t it? Not just passin’ the ball, but makin’ the game.”

Tobio listens, eyes fixed on a crack in the paint, the weight in his chest shifting just slightly. He doesn’t say it out loud, but he understands. Maybe too well. The setter is the control tower, after all. The one who touches the ball the most.

He thinks of his grandfather. Of the old man’s coarse voice explaining the game to him on the tiny television in their living room, pointing out the setter every time after Tobio decided that’s the position he wanted to play. Words warm with a pride that wasn’t boastful, just matter-of-fact.

That’s the brain of the team, Tobio. The one who decides.

He’d said it like it was sacred, and to Tobio it was. He’d chased it with everything he had until it had become something like instinct. Until it became him. Had been pushed away because of it, and then embraced by Karasuno for it too.

Maybe that’s why he can’t quite say anything now. Because Atsumu’s voice, so close and far at once, wraps around something raw. Because this quiet understanding between them, this invisible thread that stretches across prefectures and late-night phone calls, feels too vulnerable to touch.

Atsumu seems to realise. Seems to understand that whatever this is, is helping Tobio, but he’s not there yet. So he just hums, pauses for a moment like he’s thinking. 

And then he starts talking again. About how Bokuto accidentally ate a chilli and cried. How Coach Foster scolded him for chewing gum during serve drills like he was a middle schooler. How one of their wing spikers, Tomas, had been practicing a new dive and somehow pulled his hamstring during warm-up, and then bragged about it like it was a battle scar.

Atsumu talks and talks, voice looping gently, full of life and color and nothing important. Just noise. Good noise. The kind Tobio doesn’t have to respond to. Doesn’t have to think about.

Somewhere in the middle of a story about Meian giving the team a lecture on mental fortitude whilst piss drunk, Tobio exhales deeply. The tension in his chest loosens. His shoulders sink back into the couch. The rain outside hasn’t stopped, but it feels less like it’s pressing in and more like it’s holding the city in one piece.

“So he’s standin’ there, swayin’ in the hallway with a half-empty bottle in his hand, goin’ on about grit and resilience and the sacred bond of teammates, while Bokuto’s still tryin’ to wipe his face on my jacket for some goddamn reason—”

Tobio’s eyes fall closed. He’s not smiling, exactly, but the tightness in his jaw has eased. His fingers curl loosely around the phone.

“You’re making that up,” he murmurs.

“I would never, swear on my life,” Atsumu replies, solemn. Then, he stops, voice dropping again, “Feelin’ any better?”

Tobio lets his eyes drift open again. “Yes,” he says softly. “Thank you, Atsumu-san.”

There’s a smile in Atsumu’s voice when he replies. “Don’t gotta thank me. Even if ya sound real sweet when you do.”

Tobio huffs, barely a laugh, but it counts. The phone hums between them like a lifeline, soft and steady. 

Atsumu’s voice comes light, but sure, playful with just enough edge to make Tobio’s stomach twist in a way he’s getting very familiar with. 

“Tobio-kun?”

“Yeah?”

“Gonna kick yer ass tomorrow,” Atsumu says, “then buy ya dinner, and then take ya home.”

Tobio goes still, the words sitting somewhere between a tease and a promise. The kind of thing Atsumu tosses out like it means nothing, except it always lingers. 

He swallows, the faintest breath of a laugh escaping him. “In your dreams.”

“Nah,” Atsumu drawls. “In my dreams, ya don’t make me work nearly as hard.”

Tobio snorts. The sound escapes before he can think about it.

He doesn’t have the energy to unpack why Atsumu saying things like that doesn’t throw him anymore. Why it doesn’t make him flinch or snap or shut down the way it might have a year ago. It just... settles. Sits there between them like part of the rhythm they’ve fallen into. Feels like Atsumu has worn him down into accepting that he’s just like that.

There’s something grounding in the way Atsumu says it, like this is normal. Like late-night calls, dumb stories, and familiar voices soft in the dark is routine. Not just something they’ve made up as they’ve gone along. 

Like tomorrow is just another match. Another meal after. Another night that might end with them talking until sleep wins.

And maybe it is. Maybe that’s all it is.

“You’re not taking me home if you lose,” he murmurs, voice dry. “Which you will.”

Atsumu snorts. “If I lose, which I won’t, I’ll let you take me home instead.”

A beat passes. Then Tobio says, quietly, “My sister’s staying at mine for a couple of days.” 

“Oh,” Atsumu says, surprised but quick to cover it. “Right. Miwa-san, yeah?”

“Mm.”

Another pause, not quite as long this time. “That’s good, right?” He sounds unsure.

Tobio doesn’t answer immediately. He watches the rain trail down the window, faint city lights bleeding through the glass. The warmth in Atsumu’s voice is still there, steadying. 

“Yeah,” he says eventually. “It’s good.”

Atsumu doesn’t press. Just hums low, thoughtful. Then, with a softer lilt: “Guess I really won’t be takin’ ya home tomorrow.”

Tobio exhales through his nose, almost smiling. “No. You won’t.”

“Still gonna kick your ass, though.”

“You can try.”

“Oh I will, and then I’m still gonna take ya out to dinner too.” 

Tobio hesitates. “…Even if you lose?”

Atsumu clicks his tongue. “Especially if I lose. You’ll owe me emotional support. And I’ll have lost a bet, and as a man of my word, I’d owe ya.”

Tobio huffs. “You’re the one who said you were gonna win.”

“Yeah, well. Just coverin’ all outcomes. Smart planning.”

Tobio lets the argument die without heat. His cheeks are smarting, and that’s when he realises he’s been smiling all this time. It fades a little at the edges, like being caught doing something unguarded, but it doesn’t disappear. Not completely.

The line has gone quiet again. But it’s not awkward. Just still. Like neither of them wants to say goodnight first.

“I think I miss you.” The words tumble from Tobio’s mouth unguarded. Raw, unfiltered, and completely unplanned. 

It’s true though, they haven't seen each other in months. He misses the curve of Atsumu’s smile and the drag of his accent when he makes stupid jokes, when he kisses Tobio breathless and has the gall to ask if Tobio wants more. Of course he does, he always does.

Atsumu’s breath catches immediately. Surprised, maybe, but he doesn’t make a joke out of it. Doesn’t tease, or gloat, or laugh. 

It takes a second. Two.

“…You serious?” Atsumu asks, voice lower, edged with something that makes the hairs on Tobio’s arms stand.

“Yes,” Tobio says. “I mean it.”

There’s a breath on the other end, thick, restrained. Then Atsumu speaks, a little hoarse, “Prove it. Say it again if you mean it.”

Tobio’s face flushes but he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t let his voice waver, “I miss you, Atsumu-san.”

Silence, warm and electric. 

“You’re gonna make me all sentimental. What if I cry and ruin my skincare, huh? Who'll hire me for thirst trap Calvin Klein ads then?”

Tobio snorts. “That’s not my problem.”

“Unbelievable,” Atsumu says, mock-offended. “I bare my soul, and you’re cold as ice.”

“You’re not baring anything,” Tobio mutters.

“Not yet, I’m savin’ that for after the match.”

He groans, pressing a hand to his face. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“And you’re such a sweet little thing when you’re half-asleep and missin’ me,” Atsumu says, teasing. Then, his voice seems to soften again, cadence velvety and smooth, but still warm like a thick woollen blanket. “I’ll be there tomorrow, alright?”

Tobio exhales, a little relief threading through the tightness in his chest. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I know.”

He closes his eyes, the noise of the storm fading into something distant, like a memory. The couch cradles him, its worn fabric cool against his skin. Atsumu’s steady breathing carries through, a quiet presence that grounds him better than words ever could.

“Baby,” he eventually breaks the silence, low and a little rough around the edges, familiar, but softened by something unspoken. “Think yer fallin’ asleep on me.”

“No,” Tobio lies, unable to stifle the yawn that follows.

Atsumu laughs, the sound muffled, “You suck at lying, y’know.” A soft pause fills the line before he says, “Go to sleep, Tobio-kun. Need ya in top form so I can crush ya”

“Goodnight, ‘Tsumu-san,” Tobio replies, voice gentle, already half-lost to slumber.

The call ends, leaving only the quiet hum of the room, and the promise of tomorrow.

He is half asleep when the soft clatter of something pulls him out of the haze. His eyes crack open. The room is dim, quiet but not silent.  In the kitchen, barely lit by the glow from the stove clock, there’s a shape moving. 

Miwa. 

Her hair is mussed, a blanket draped haphazardly around her shoulders. She moves slowly, almost sleepwalking, rummaging through the cabinet for a glass.

Tobio doesn’t say anything. Just watches.

She fills the glass from the tap, drinks half of it in one go, then leans against the counter like she’s forgotten she meant to go back to bed.

She must sense him watching because she glances over her shoulder, squinting into the dark.

“You’re still up?” she mumbles.

Tobio closes his eyes again, not quite answering. The couch is warm under him, the blanket pulled up to his chest. He hears her pad across the room, bare feet whispering against the floor.

He wonders how long she’s been awake, if she heard his quiet mumbling, the buzz of a tinny voice replying from his phone. She would say something if she had, surely? 

On her way back to bed, she pauses beside the couch for a second, finishes the rest of her water, and says, soft and almost fond, “You always overthink at night.”

He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t need to.

She sets the empty glass on the coffee table and heads back toward the bedroom. The door clicks shut gently behind her.

He exhales through his nose and lets his eyes drift back to the ceiling.

Tomorrow, he’ll be on the court again. In the bright lights, with the polished floor beneath his shoes, the breath of the crowd rising and falling like a tide. He thinks of Miwa, maybe sitting somewhere in the stands. Not waving, not calling out his name, but there. Watching. Choosing to be there.

And across the net: Atsumu.

Tobio’s fingers curl slightly where they’re resting against his abdomen. Anticipation simmers like a low fever, just beneath his skin. It stirs in him the way a storm brews in the distance: not yet thunder, not yet lightning, but the pressure’s there. Thick in the air. Heavy in his chest.

And when he finally closes his eyes, it’s not just sleep that takes him, but a quiet, trembling satisfaction.